A Mirage in Time
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: After Clara, the Doctor seeks out an Echo to help him move on… and finds himself just as perplexed by her and possibly just as in love.
1. Chapter 1

"She died a hero," the Doctor told Jenny solemnly as they stood at the edge of the cemetery, looking to the crowd that was gathered around an elegant wooden coffin being lowered into the ground. He'd gone to Buckingham Palace and asked the Queen for a favor – she owed him a good many – and she'd offered him her condolences before ringing her undertakers – Clara would be buried, the Doctor knew, in the finest coffin Britain had to offer.

Like royalty.

He could see Dave bend just as the whirring of machinery stopped and Clara had reached her final resting place in a plot just next to her mother. It had been reserved for him, and the Doctor knew the pain he was feeling well – having to give up his burial place to fill it with his child. It wasn't right and it turned his stomach as he watched the man cover his face to try and squelch a sob. A woman at his right rubbed his shoulders and the Doctor frowned. Clara never liked her, but she'd be glad her father had someone.

Clara's Gran stood at Dave's other side. The Doctor knew that old woman had cried; Clara had told him stories about her that brightened her face and managed to warm his hearts. He could see the stubbornness of her granddaughter in her stance and in her refusal to break. She reached calmly to take Dave's hand and give it a squeeze just before she moved forward to drop a red rose into the earth before looking skyward.

It was a sunny day and the Doctor looked up to the puffs of clouds standing still in the bright sky above them and raised his arms at them, grumbling, "Skies should _mourn_ the loss of a hero."

Jenny glanced up at him nervously, asking quietly, "How should they mourn her, Doctor?"

"They should cry for her," he twisted slightly to tell her, arms slapping his sides. "White should turn grey and that grey should fall to the ground," then he laughed, "Quite suiting though, the sunshine."

Shaking her head, Jenny told him honestly, "Not sure I understand."

He gestured up, "Stubborn sky, saluting Clara not with tears, but with clarity – with the promise of hope and good things – like Clara; begging the world to say, ' _No. Don't cry over me; don't wet the ground; don't sully your boots in the mud of sadness_.'" The Doctor sighed. "Look to the skies, what a bright beautiful day." He tapped Jenny lightly on the chin with his knuckle and smiled because she truly _didn't_ understand.

Because she thought him mad.

"Chin up," he told her lightly, turning to make his way back to the Tardis, the frown returning the instant he stepped through… the frown deepening because Jenny's quick footsteps across the steel console flooring sounded too much like Clara's. He turned, looking to the woman staring peculiarly at him.

The dark hair let down over her shoulders too much like Clara's.

The brown eyes watching him with concern too much like Clara's.

The borrowed black jacket over a grey blouse atop a black skirt and tights too much like Clara's.

The way she was clutching her fingers together at the edge of the console…

 _Too much_.

The Doctor turned away, focusing his thoughts on the controls around him and giving Jenny a nod she responded to by finding a handle to hold onto, knowing they were about to head back to Victorian London. "I know why she sent you in her place."

Jenny's eyes came up to meet his and she offered a shy smile, telling him sheepishly, "Because she's a lizard? Bit too much attention, eh, Doctor?"

He laughed lightly and he listened to the small one she responded with before he shook his head, informing her plainly, "Because you're quite alike – you and Clara."

Her head bowed, bashful for the comparison, and then Jenny answered on a laugh, "Clara's definitely not like me, sir, or else I'm definitely not like Clara."

But he interjected quickly, "Head strong, courageous, quick-witted, and just a bit _too taken_ with this life – too much for your own good, you know," he finished quietly as the Tardis landed.

They shared a look, for just a moment. One in which Jenny wondered whether he was telling her she'd gotten herself in over her head; one in which the Doctor understood Jenny had chosen, like Clara, to risk her life for a cause greater than herself. Because she was right – they weren't alike in a lot of ways, but in just a few, they were, and Jenny, like Clara, knew too well the importance of what they did alongside alien beings too complicated to understand. Beings, the Doctor knew, Clara and Jenny loved far too much.

 _Too much for your own good_ , his mind repeated sadly in Clara's voice.

His head dropped first, eyes shifting away, and he tapped at a lever as he listened to her hesitantly take the first step towards the doors, moving through them quietly and he could just hear the whispers between the woman and her wife. Though he couldn't make out what was said, he knew Jenny was detailing the day – or _days_ , as it were – and he knew Vastra was taking in every detail, trying to discern if their friend was emotionally compromised. Trying to work out whether he would seclude himself again, the way he'd done before. Was he distraught in the same way, he wondered, knowing Vastra wondered the same.

 _Of course I am_ , he thought to himself, _why wouldn't I be_?

The door opened and Vastra's heavier footsteps moved in just two steps, telling him boldly, "Strax has just set the table for dinner, I told him you were to join us." There was a pause before she added, "I expect you will be joining us, Doctor."

He smiled because there was no hint of a question in her voice, only a certainty, and he accepted it by swinging the lever down and gently pushing a button, making his way silently towards Vastra and then past her, through the Tardis doors and into the upstairs bedroom in which he'd landed. The Doctor could smell the cooking beef in the air and he smiled even though it turned his stomach. How could he eat knowing Dave was sitting somewhere in a room contemplating a trip to Clara's flat.

The other man would be left to clean it out.

To erase his daughter from time.

"How was your trip?" Vastra asked, interrupting his thoughts as they took the stairs down together, the Doctor looking to the steps, Vastra to the Doctor.

Nodding, he replied blankly, "Jenny was helpful."

"I'm quite certain she was, Doctor," Vastra began with a quick jerk of her head, "But you know very well that's not what I meant."

He turned at the foot of the stairs, grunting in frustration, "We didn't burn her, if that's what you're wondering." Because her death wasn't common, nor was it easy to explain and the option had come up. But how could he? How could _he_?

Nodding, Vastra considered the steely look in his eyes, the one betrayed only by the hands held tightly against his lower abdomen, palpating each other nervously. "What did you tell her father?"

The Doctor nodded curtly and then stepped sideways and turned, making his way into the dining room to pull back one of the chairs, settling himself down comfortably before taking a small sip of wine. Voice calmer, he told her coolly, "What of the truth we could, a few white lies where we couldn't – she's been working for UNIT for quite some time and she was killed stopping an alien invasion. A few bits of forged documentation, coupled with Mr. Oswald's obvious grief, there really was no need for convincing, or elaborating."

Vastra remained standing beside her chair and she could see Jenny's small nod as the woman poured tea and then settled herself in the space across from the Doctor. Inhaling deeply, Vastra asked, "What was his response?"

A hand dropping heavily to the table, rattling the silverware, the Doctor looked up at Vastra and he spat sardonically, "He _cried_."

She merely nodded, and then took her seat, exchanging a look with Jenny, who looked to the table.

" _He wasn't like that the whole time, mostly stayed quiet_."

Jenny's voice was meek in her mind and Vastra gave her a simple nod, flapping her napkin to unfold it before setting it in her lap as Strax entered with a tray of food, handing them each a plate before moving to the end of the table to enjoy his own dinner, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room.

The Doctor threw down his napkin beside the steaming steak and bowl of soup and he stood, hands curled tightly into fists at his side. He looked to Vastra and told her quietly, "Thank you for the hospitality, but I'm not quite…" the words disappeared and he nodded and she could see the red in his eyes when he finally raised them to look at her. Turning, he strode from the room calmly, though a moment later, something clattered loudly to the ground and Vastra raised a hand to stop Jenny from standing.

"He's distraught," Vastra hissed.

Jenny leaned towards Vastra and spat, "He's _mad_ – almost _worse_ than before. What little he _did_ say? Not much sense to be made of it."

Gesturing to their plates, she sighed and offered, "I'll speak to him once he's cooled off."

They ate slowly, Jenny occasionally glancing up at the door as though she expected the Doctor to re-enter with some animated display of psychosis. Vastra gave the Doctor three hours, waiting until the midnight chime of Big Ben went off in the distance to seek him out. She expected to have to climb out onto a ledge, but instead she was surprised to find him in the garden, seated calmly on the grass, quietly staring up at the sky.

"She always told me it never seemed as big as when we were back on Earth," the Doctor offered, letting Vastra know three things: firstly, that she wasn't as stealthy as she thought; secondly, that he'd calmed considerably; thirdly, he might just be ready to talk.

Approaching him, she remained standing just a few feet away, looking to the way he plucked at the grass, stopping when he turned to give her a sad smile and a small nod to the space beside him, her invitation. Vastra sat carefully, tucking her legs underneath her long dark dress, and she watched him cough a laugh that sounded enough like a withheld sob to make her turn away. She would have expected this from his last incarnation, but from this one it curled her lips into a painful frown because this face – as honest as it was in its weathered appearance – was skilled at keeping emotions held in check.

But now that façade was cracked, spilling over uncomfortably.

"Clara loved everything about being alive," he told her, his eyes brightening again at her memory. "She could look at a blade of grass and tell you how wonderful it was that it could clean our air and feed our livestock and feel so soothing on the bottom of bare feet in the summer. She loved to do that, you know, those few and fleeting innocent moments of exploration where she could kick off those ridiculous shoes of hers and spread her toes on alien soil." He smiled, glancing up at Vastra as he let a single tear fall from each eye. "Ah, _Clara_. Clara could look to the sky and never remember the name of a single star, no matter how many times I told her, but she could marvel on how far they were and how close they seemed and how humanity sang songs about the stars and then travelled to the stars and how one day they would live amongst them, exploring the next horizon."

"She was quite a human," Vastra agreed.

They listened to the wind play through the bushes and trees, and they ignored the hooting of an owl and eventually another bong from the clock that told them a half hour had passed in silence. Vastra watched the Doctor's steady breathing as he continually plucked at the grass around him. Slow tugs of his careful hands that hypnotized her until he turned slightly towards her.

"Her father cried," he told her softly. "And I wanted to explain that _death_ was a part of _life_. I wanted to tell him that the universe _creates_ and the universe _destroys_ and the universe _creates again_ with those remnants. That Clara would go into the ground and one day she would nourish the soil and she would become the grass that children ran across, and yet all I could do was stand beside Kate, my mouth like cotton because he _cried_ and none of the truth of life and death made any sense in that moment."

"Doctor?" Vastra questioned.

He turned fully and gave her a tortured smiled that faded as his hand came up and opened as he told her honestly, "I just wanted her to get up. _One last impossible thing_."

Vastra watched him wince and twist away, embarrassed by his thoughts, she knew, and she sighed lightly as he steeled himself again. "You know the risks in doing what you do, _your companions_ know it just as well," she told him sternly, afraid for how distant he sounded – how very not like himself he sounded. Though it was the same after the Ponds. That cheerful boyish face had never frowned so much, and then he went up in his box, occasionally coming down because, Vastra knew, he couldn't lock himself away forever.

 _And he'd found Clara._

Nodding, the Doctor pushed his lips together, dropping his brow, and he allowed, "I know, I know."

"Clara is gone, you do understand that," she stated as softly as she could. The woman that had breathed new life into him; the woman that had reminded him that the universe could be beautiful and magical again. Vastra feared he might not recover the same this time.

One of his hands came up, a fistful of grass fluttering through the air as he sighed, "Like a leaf blown away by a breeze, I know, Vastra, I kn…" his face froze and Vastra felt something inside of her drop because a slight manic look burst to life in those old eyes and when he turned, he grabbed her shoulders and breathed, "Like a million leaves scattered to the wind."

"Doctor," she warned as he stood, brushing the grass off his pants, because she understood perfectly well what he was thinking, and she shot simply, " _No_."

He turned, walking backwards towards the house with his hands coming out at either side of him, a crazed smile working his gaunt face. "She's not gone, _don't you see_. Not _all_ of her."

"You can't simply seek out one of her echoes, carry on with them as though she'd never gone," Vastra shot as she stood, rushing towards him.

"Don't be ridiculous, I'd obviously have to befriend them first," he spat.

"Doctor, you can't do this to them," she shouted.

"Just one," he bellowed, hand coming up.

"And after her? And after the next?" She pointed out with a nod, moving swiftly after him until he stopped and stared at her, a smile shifting awkwardly on his lips.

His hand balled and he lifted a single finger, head shaking as he argued, "Just one. Just one Clara in a sea of Clara's floating out in the universe."

"Doctor, this is insane! You know what happens when you and one of her echoes cross paths," Vastra began slowly before reminding, "They exist to save you – more than likely, they _die_ for you."

Head bobbing, lips working between his teeth, he considered it and then he laughed, "Just one, Vastra, just one. I could find her and I could help her." He pushed his fingers into his chest and then poked them out into the air in front of him, "Me, I could save her, just the one."

Twisting, he took several long steps towards the house when Vastra called, "And then you'll move on, Doctor, you can promise me that you'll move on?" The question was thick with uncertainty, and she waited, eyes wide with shock because maybe this was what he _needed_ – and maybe this would be _disastrous_.

The Doctor's feet faltered underneath him just as the air was sucked from him, and he shifted around slowly to look at her and offer a small sad grin, "I have to see her again, just _once_."

Looking to the desperation in his eyes, sensing the way his hearts pumped erratically in his chest, Vastra was unsure and she asked firmly, "Are you sure just once will be enough? Are you sure this echo will be enough? What happens if she doesn't? Tell me, will you seek another? And then another, Doctor?"

The Doctor swallowed roughly and he shrugged, telling her honestly, "I have to try," and he turned back towards the house, ignoring Vastra's calls behind him. He had to get to the Tardis and he had to locate Clara Oswald.


	2. Chapter 2

Vastra was still calling after him as he launched himself up the stairs and into the bedroom and he could hear Jenny question what was going on and he could hear Strax scream something about backup and grenades, but he pushed into the Tardis and closed the door with a crash. And then he froze. He pressed his forehead to the inside of the door and there were murmurs outside, but he couldn't make out what they were saying, his hearts were thudding too loudly in his chest.

He could really do it, he knew. He could simply seek her out and fly to her and introduce himself and take her up into the stars because he knew it was in her 'programming' to want to _seek him out and fly with him_. Vastra, he knew, was absolutely right, and the conflicting thoughts turned his stomach and sent a warm surge of adrenaline through his veins.

"Just one," he told the Tardis as she blared her warning bells. "Just one, just once, just _one bloody time_ , the universe is going to give me what I want."

It was _wrong_.

The thought slammed through his head and he shook it out, flipping a lever and typing quickly into the screen and waiting, watching the Gallifreyan that flew back up to greet him, to tell him it was searching. To tell him it was obeying. To finally tell him where she was.

2430 London.

He laughed because they were supposed to go to 2398 London just the next day. It was their next trip. To meet with world leaders and show Clara the plans that would usher in wonderful things, or at least interesting things. He smirked, she would merely point and laugh at the prime minister's hat. He looked up at the image that flashed up on the screen. It was a color photo of her smiling face dated the third of August 2424.

Her hair seemed darker, just a bit longer, and her skin slightly more tan, but it was her. A part of her, he thought as his finger absently reached up to touch her cheek on the screen. "I'm so sorry, Clara," he whispered, because he knew his Clara would disagree. His Clara would tell him to pick a day and pick a time and find another someone to travel with.

His Clara would understand though.

"After _her_ ," he promised, eyes closing against the cheerful face staring him down. "After I save _her_."

He pushed at the buttons in front of him, listening to the engine roar, and the lights flickered around the room as the Tardis shifted into the time vortex. He generally felt the passing of time in interesting ways, but in that moment it felt frozen, just as his hearts felt, and as the Tardis landed, it all shifted back into normal speed. The lights around him slowed and the engine quieted to a hum and he looked to the doors, making his way towards them slowly.

If the Doctor had to describe 2430 London in one word after stepping out of his Tardis and onto the rubble, he would say it was loud. _Loud_. Just that one simple word for the whistling that ripped through the air and the grumbling pops of explosions in the distance, the cascade of bricks and cement ricocheting off each other and landing loudly onto the ground. He would say that the gunfire was deafening and he would say that the shouts of soldiers and civilians were distracting, but he would sum it all up with one word.

Loud.

He searched quickly, spotting a place to take refuge for the moment, and as the Doctor breathed in the exhaust of vehicles that seemed to permeate the air, mingled with the smoke of dead fires smoldering around him, he stumbled forward and towards the remains of a building, working his way through a half broken door to stand inside. The sounds of the outside world were muted, but still there – a reminder of the war that raged on – but he chose to listen to the sizzle of dust working its way through cracks in the ceiling to the carpet greyed out beneath him; to watch it sparkle and swirl in the beams of the dwindling light from just outside. To be fascinated by that simplicity before considering his surroundings and wondering whether or not it'd been the best idea to exit.

Vastra had been right to tell him it was an insane idea. Of course, he smiled, deepening the lines on his old face, wasn't she always right? Of course, even sanity wouldn't have stopped him – _shouldn't she know_ , he thought to himself, _that the Doctor was a jump to the left of all sane thought_? He managed a chuckle; one that sat heavy in that empty space as he dropped his eyes to the ground, seeing the even coating of dust, undisturbed save for a few light footsteps that lead further inside.

He pulled the Sonic from his breast pocket and gave the air in front of him a quick wave, scanning the room before glancing at the results. There were several life forms, mostly small rodents, he knew, but he detected one human. The single human whose face he longed to see. The single human he knew he should probably stay the furthest from. Because the single human he detected had to be an echo of Clara Oswald and, as such, as soon as he came into contact with her, he knew this single human would do everything in her power to keep him safe.

It was her vow.

An unfair one that generally left her for dead, but her name was on his lips before he could think. Her face was smiling in his mind and pounding against his hearts, urging him to step softly through the stiff air towards a corridor cut into the left wall – one that lead into the next building where she was probably hiding from his presence. Because this echo had apparently been raised in an era of battle and this echo would see him as a _threat_.

Rightly so.

He chanced to utter her name aloud, listened to the two syllables bounce through the silence and he imagined it might have frozen the woman ahead of him to a spot, wondering whether it'd be safe to expose herself to a stranger who knew she was there. Knew exactly who was there. The Doctor knew Clara would want to know just how he held her name in his mouth and he knew his voice would pick at something in the back of her mind. That unconscious desire to draw closer to him.

It was utterly unfair, he realized. But his selfishness drove him towards her, chancing to speak again and listening for signs of movement as he entered the darkness. His hands gripped carefully at the jagged edges of drywall, avoiding the bits of lumber tinged green in places with mold. Stepping over the threshold made of door bits and discarded office supplies, he hissed as he set his foot down, eyes immediately rising to scan the space.

The windows had been painted black, _efficiently_ – he noted, light peeking in through just a few strategic spaces. Spaces, he grinned, that were just about her height. He imagined this was where she chose to make her stand. For whatever reason it was this building, something about the building, the placing, seemed the right place. He smiled because he thought maybe it was the least bombed location, a safe zone; he chuckled because maybe it was where the most enemy soldiers entered, a spot she could pick them out, one by one.

Then he frowned, the notion of Clara becoming a murderer striking a painful blow at the center of his chest. It might have become a necessity, he knew, mind working over the details of this particular war. Except he couldn't find the source of it. He went through time, time and time again, and he had no recollection of a war in London at that particular time, but he could tell it was terrible – could smell it in the air.

Millions of lives were lost in this war, he knew. A war over what? Why couldn't he _remember_? Watching his shoe send a small chunk of drywall rattling a path over the dust, he offered the silence a chuckle just before the sound of a gun charging burned his ears.

"Wait," he stated, both hands coming up at his sides, his Sonic still tightly clutched in his right. "Just wait, I can explain."

She didn't offer him a single word in response then, merely moved closer, the humming of her gun growing louder as she approached. He narrowed his eyes against the beam of light trained on him, seeing the sparks of rainbows around the silhouetted figure he could barely make out.

"Clara," he called, watching the woman in front of him as she considered him. "Clara Oswald," he finished. Then he groaned, "That's your name, isn't it?"

"Orders," she barked lowly.

His head tilted and he asked, "I'm sorry, what?"

"What are your orders?" She groaned, then added on a shout when he didn't answer, "Are you _slow_? What have you been sent here to do?"

He laughed and his hands flapped slightly as he spoke, incredulously shouting back, "Oh, I _see_. Oh, this is _grand_. So, you've become a soldier."

The light wavered slightly, lowering just an inch, and she replied angrily, "It wasn't really a _choice_."

The Doctor stopped and his arms fell away as he told her, "You're Clara Oswald and you would never make a choice like this."

Even though he knew the ridiculousness of what he'd just said. Of course she might choose this life, given the circumstances. Her echoes could, and _would_ , run the gamut of _Clara_ and the Doctor knew there was a soldier in her somewhere – he'd seen that soldier on the fighting field far too many times, mostly at his command. Taking orders and following through to save the day.

 _Only_ to save the day.

"Who are you?" She questioned. He could hear the doubt in her voice. He could almost see it in her eyes, except the light still cast an odd greyish opacity over her that frustrated his vision as he nodded slowly, considering his words.

And he knew it was just best to tell her, so he said, "I'm the Doctor."

"The Doctor," she responded. There was a hint of recognition and it brightened his spirits, except that she didn't lower her weapon. She kept it steadily trained on him, raised back up even so that the light struck him squarely in his line of sight, gun aimed at a spot directly between his eyes, making him wince painfully. "The Doctor is gone," she finally told him.

"Gone," he spat. "I'm right here, what do you mean I've gone."

"Stopped helping ages ago," she informed him.

"Ah, so _you do_ know of me," he affirmed on a nod, narrowing his eyes just enough to see her outline again. That slender tiny frame that belonged one of the most powerful women he'd ever met. That slender tiny frame he'd held in his arms as she'd taken her last courageous breath.

The weapon lowered slowly then, the light making a trail over his chest and landing against his stomach. He could see her, even in the dim light. Could see how very much the same this echo was and also how very different from _his Clara_ she was. And he imagined, looking into the anger in her eyes, that if he'd been able to read her mind, she was as different as he could possible imagine.

Her dark hair wasn't layered in a shower of colorful browns, but a dull darkness that sat heavily atop her head. Wet with sweat and grease, it was pulled tightly into a pony tail, only the wisps of her shortest bangs hanging limp against the sides of her face. Her skin was pale, ghostly even, and he frowned at the way her pants were held up by twine, as though she'd lost enough of herself in a short time and had been unable to replace them.

Inhaling a short breath, he looked her over again, thinking back to the photograph he'd seen in the Tardis, trying to reconcile the differences, trying to find anything in the stare she was leveling at him that belonged to his Clara, but all he found were deadened eyes that revealed nothing. He lifted his left hand, gesturing lightly at her and he repeated, brow dropping, "You do know me, don't you?"

Letting her gun hang at her side, she smiled then, but it did nothing to alleviate the unease creeping coldly up the Doctor's back. It sent a wave of gooseflesh over him as he waited for the response he could see, readying itself in her mind.

"Of course I know you," she told him on a nod. "I killed you."

And in a flash, she ripped a smaller gun from her waistband and fired.


	3. Chapter 3

Offices at UNIT were sparsely decorated; who had the time really? Of course that was the excuse they gave – who had the time to put up photos of families, or things that one loved when you were out trying to save the world. Clara had grown used to it, but she'd never become comfortable with it. She knew the truth: decorations were frowned upon, seen as distractions from the cause. Seen as distractions from the end of this seemingly never-ending war.

To her it bred sterility. It bred complacency. It served the exact opposite of what it should. Offices bare and strikingly void of humanity voided the humanity that sat within it. In her eyes there should be something more than four walls on which hung degrees, office policies, and political propaganda. There should be something up there _worth fighting for_.

Not that her office was any different from the one she currently sat in. Except in a tiny corner, just underneath the clear screen of her monitor, sat a small red toy. Something from a childhood taken too soon that she looked at every day to remind her, just in case she ever had the audacity to forget.

 _Fighting for peace came at a price_.

"Captain," came the curt voice from the door as it opened.

She didn't bother standing. Clara barely bothered to straighten in her slumped position in the chair that sat too deep for her and left her feet dangling awkwardly an inch off the ground. Her chest hurt for some reason she couldn't decipher – as though she'd been punched in the sternum – though she couldn't recall an injury over the past few days. She grasped her hands tighter in her lap and looked up to the man rounding his desk to drop into his own chair with a muted squeak of protest from just underneath him.

"General, sir," she managed to reply.

"I've read your report," he told her, a point to the document just after he laid it out in front of him. His dark eyes narrowed at it and then raised up to examine her. "Seems like you have a lot of questions."

The tone, she noted, was one of amusement. Of course it would be – you weren't supposed to ask questions, that was something Clara had learned long ago and it took every bit of her strength to bite her tongue at every turn, her mind churning with the want to ask.

Mostly _why_?

Why was she sitting in a superior's office awaiting what she imagined was a debriefing? That definitely wasn't standard procedure. Why wasn't she allowed to interrogate the Doctor? Wasn't it her case to question? And how was he still alive if she'd put a round of pulses into him months ago? Enough to leave a crater dabbed black, red, and pink with the remnants of his body. Was this man _truly_ the Doctor? Her scanner had told her he was Gallifreyan, just as it had before. And why the Doctor?

And _why her_?

Why had she been recruited in the first place? To this specific assignment so _easily_ when she'd asked. A resemblance to a woman in his past, she'd been told once; by accident, she knew. She tried to assess how this man had reacted to her over how the previous one had, searching her memories for that cocky smile as he'd approached her before – down that very same street.

" _Clara – it is still Clara, isn't it? How very quaint to see you here_."

But this man had said her name _differently_. Almost with longing and she hated herself for knowing it made her hesitate, hated lying on the report she'd turned in, telling them she hadn't hesitated, she'd merely offered him time to identify himself. Because if he was the Doctor, then she'd somehow failed in her mission and it was her responsibility to figure out where she'd gone wrong.

She met the man's stare and nodded slowly, asking, "When can I talk to him?"

He laughed. It was lighthearted, but it sat heavily on her heart, warming her neck with anger because it was patronizing and she knew it. "Bit above your pay grade, don't you think?" He finally responded and she watched his finger lightly tap the edge of his nameplate. The one that read _GEN MARSHALL WALLACE_ in white letters across the black.

Clara understood – he was reminding her that she held the rank of Captain, but she certainly didn't outrank him. Not by a long shot. With a small nod, and a simple smile, she offered, "Sorry, I suppose you're right." She shifted, straightening. "You can understand my eagerness – he's claiming to be someone I killed just a few months ago and I'd certainly like to know if I've made a grave error."

"You took out your target," General Wallace affirmed. "We're interrogating this fellow now. Could turn out to be some derange..."

"But my scanner showed Gallifreyan – there aren't many of them left." She laughed. "Or any."

He considered her a moment, then leaned forward to clasp his hands to ask, "What do you know of Gallifrey, Captain?"

Her smile froze as she answered shortly, "All information on Gallifrey is classified."

Responding with a nod, he looked to the door and Clara understood – she didn't know anything and couldn't make proclamations. She also understood their conversation had been to gauge what she knew, implying he thought she might know more, implying there was more to know, an idea that intrigued her. She also understood their conversation was quite over and she stood, saluting as honestly as she could before he dismissed her officially.

Clara closed the door behind her and immediately brought her palms up to cool her neck at either side. The sweat of the day weighed on her and she inhaled as she began to walk, still smelling dust and dirt that clung to the insides of her nostrils. She needed a hot shower, a cup of red wine, and a good book.

The thought made her smile as she made her way back to her office, unlocking her door and shifting inside with a quick grin to a passing young man who looked green as he saw the name plate on her door and the stripes on her shoulders. Newbies, she thought to herself, taught to be terrified of the very ranking system they strove to move up through.

One day she'd been just like him, she knew, falling into her chair loudly, her boots clunking against the floor, a small poof of smoke twirling out from underneath them. She'd been held up in that building for days just waiting for a reason to go home. Surveillance, she thought with a roll of her eyes, all she'd been in charge of since being promoted was surveillance and overseeing a hundred others... doing surveillance.

Groaning at her desk, she picked up a file and then spoke firmly, "Unlock."

"Voice recognized; command accepted," the female voice chimed back and the clear display in front of her blinked to show her the last entries she'd made.

"All the surveillance and nothing to survey," she whispered, typing in a few standard entries about the weather and the amount of troops and the lack of findings. "Except, the Doctor," she told herself, turning to look at the time before rolling her eyes and leaning back in her chair. "Supposedly the Doctor," she sighed.

Clara looked to the red rubber duck, just underneath the monitor. It stared back at her, large eyes and beak frozen in a smile that brought with it memories and the sting of tears she refused to shed. Because lives should never be lost over the greed of men, especially lives so young. The door opened and an older woman entered without waiting for permission, bringing an easy grin to Clara's lips just before she saw the sadness creep across the wrinkled face staring down at her, offering her mail.

"Thinking about Charlie again."

"Yeah," Clara allowed simply.

The woman pursed her lips and Clara knew what she was thinking – it was high time she moved on – but she knew the woman had long ago given up telling her. Instead she gripped the rest of the mail to her chest and looked out through the windows behind Clara where the clouds were gathering into a thunderstorm to tell her, "Looks like a rough night ahead."

Not turning, Clara sighed, "Yeah." Then she stated firmly, "Lock."

"Voice recognized; command accepted," the computer responded.

"I'm done for the day, Alice," she told the secretary, who managed an honest smile as Clara picked up a dingy brown bag out of a drawer before locking it and moving with the older woman to the hall, locking her door and offering her name plate a frown.

"Goodnight, Captain Palmer," Alice called.

Clara nodded and offered a casual two finger salute to the woman who laughed, turning to begin her walk towards the garages where her old jeep would be waiting. She could hear the man in that building from earlier calling out to her – the man who'd called himself _the Doctor_ – and she thought for a moment about how he'd said her name. _Clara Oswald._ She sighed, she hadn't been that woman in a very long time.

Three stories beneath her, the Doctor woke with a start, gasping for breath he didn't know he'd lost, and he found himself strapped to a bed in a darkened room. He stilled, widening his eyes until they hurt, trying to see through the black, but he knew it was useless. Willing his muscles to relax, he settled his back onto the mattress, testing each of his restraints carefully before deciding it would be better to simply remain and figure out what had happened in the morning.

By the smell, he understood he was in a sterile building. By the silence, he knew he was far from human traffic, or at the very least, was situated behind very thick walls. He smiled at that – the man with no weapons, hidden in a blast bunker like a bomb awaiting detonation.

Why had Clara's echo stunned him?

He knew it'd been a stun gun, could feel the remnants of pain in his chest. Could feel the broken skin where the prods had dug in and the wet way the gauze they'd covered his wounds with shifted over them as he moved. He wasn't in his own clothes, he understood. Some sort of hospital gown, thankfully with trousers. Probably green. Or bright orange. Or possibly grey. He hoped it was grey, it might suite him best.

But what was the point?

The world had blacked out just after she'd raised her weapon, but he still had the image of the anger in her eyes frozen on in his mind. What had caused her such anger? And why against him? Was it him? Growing up in a war zone, being a soldier in a war, one learned to compartmentalize ones feelings – to hide them when necessary, to shift them aside, to redirect them to accomplish a task.

A mission.

 _Him_?

Why?

" _Clara, why_?" He sighed aloud.

The lights flickered on slowly; a ticking proceeded by the loud buzz of fluorescents that moved through the room until all sixteen bulbs in all eight light fixtures were illuminated, leaving his eyes stinging under their brightness. He blinked, trying to accustom his eyes to the new light as he waited. Obviously someone would be coming for him. Obviously they knew he was awake. How?

Voice sensors, he imagined. Only realistic assumption because he could feel no medical devices on him – which surprised him – nor could he see any kind of double sided mirror through which he might be observed. Obviously someone was listening, and when the door opened, he asked quickly, "How'd you know I was awake?"

He was met with a blank stare. One that came from a General who looked exhausted, no doubt, having spent the day hard at work, the Doctor considered. Paperwork and micromanaging, definitely did a number on one's stamina. _Tired_ , the Doctor thought to himself, _good_. People say things they don't mean to say when they're tired. He waited another moment, then dropped his head back.

"At least tell me where I am."

"UNIT," came the reply.

"UNIT?" He questioned. He glanced around again curiously, because he couldn't remember UNIT having a room like this and he'd been in every room there at one point or another – or so he thought. He catalogued it as another irregularity, added to the war that shouldn't be.

"Should be quite comfortable here, Doctor," the General told him, and the Doctor could see a smug grin growing on the other man's lips as he approached him, confident with the Doctor restrained. "I heard you used to spend quite a bit of time here at UNIT..."

"Where's Clara?" The Doctor interrupted on a groan. He knew men like this one – men who felt their self-importance needed to be paraded. Men he had no time for.

The General studied his indifference before repeating, "Clara?"

"Yeah," the Doctor shot, eyes popping wide for a moment, brow rising before he calmed. "Woman who put me in this state – I'd like to speak with her, if you don't mind."

He could see the color rising on the General's neck, a man unaccustomed to being sent fetching. His fists balled as he took a breath and explained, "The Captain's gone home for the night."

"Captain?" The Doctor asked, turning in shock. And he immediately regretted the slip because he saw the satisfaction on the General's face at his surprise.

General Wallace shifted even closer and he nodded, "You'll understand if she's not quite thrilled to see you. Different time and all – this isn't the Clara you're accustomed to."

"I'm not thick," the Doctor drawled, "At least not as thick as you seem to think," he continued angrily.

"Oh, I know you're a genius," Wallace allowed, hands coming out as he nodded. "I also know you've got some sort of emotional connection to my colleague's face that's been a great advantage for us."

"Howso?" The Doctor shot.

Gesturing towards him, Wallace laughed, "Caught you without so much as a fight. Apparently twice now." He shrugged, "Though seeing as the last time we were scraping your remains off the asphalt, I have a few questions." He sighed, hands coming together. "If _you_ don't mind."

The Doctor turned away, looking to the ceiling, and he spoke lowly and clearly and sternly, "And I'll speak to the Captain, if _you_ don't mind."


	4. Chapter 4

Clara took a long breath, eyes closed to the darkened bathroom around her. Cinnamon, Lavender, and something like Maple – maybe some sort of _vanilla_ – wafted up her nostrils distractingly appetizing. Her flatmate had too many candles and scented bath gels and they were lovely, she thought to herself, but there was absolutely no synchronicity to their smells. Not that she minded, she enjoyed occasionally filling the tub with water just a touch too hot and soaking her tired and sore body in it.

She lifted a hand off her stomach and touched the spot at the center of her chest that ached, felt the scars that sat there waiting to remind her of a bit of the past she longed to forget. There were no mirrors in her room for that reason – no accidental glimpses of those scars, nor any of the others she knew lay scattered about her body, the _rewards_ of war. She frowned, listening to the light crackling of bubbles around her as she tried to relax.

Her heart was thudding away and the aches were only growing more painful.

"Clara?" The light knock on the door accompanying the voice made her smile. Because Caroline made her smile – one of the very few people who could, aside from her mum and Gran. The woman on the other side of the door waited for her response, Clara knew, out of a fear she refused to speak aloud.

And Clara roused herself enough to answer, "Yeah, almost done."

There was a nervous laugh, a relieved laugh, Clara understood, as Caroline told her lightly, "No, no, you finish up – Lord knows you need it."

She smiled to herself as she lay in the tub, thinking about the blonde she knew would remain just a second longer than she needed outside of that door, out of concern. Caroline was always concerned about her – a good _friend_ , she knew. Clara also knew they were hard to come by and she made a mental note to pick her up something nice the next chance she got to get out. It wasn't often – she was either working, dictating a grocery list to Caroline over her mobile, or trying her best to rest in their flat.

Groaning against a new pinch in her left hand, she pulled the plug on at the end of the tub with the toes of her right foot and then stood, reaching for a towel. Clara stood naked a moment, her hand to her chest, taking long breaths to try and calm the beating of her heart, but it remained a chaotic drum within her. With a sigh, she wrapped herself and moved out into the cooler air in the hall, glancing towards her flatmate's bedroom with an evil grin.

 _You want palpitations_ , she thought to herself, _I'll give you something to be erratic about_.

She moved stealthily down the hall, gripping the doorway with moist hands and for a moment she merely watched as Caroline continued to bop her head lightly to the music in her headphones as she sat in a unicorn onesie and sketched away in a notepad. Her flatmate was a young thing, a southerner from the States, abroad studying art in spite of the conditions (" _the history here_!" she once argued), and she reminded Clara that not everyone had been hardened by the war. With a sparkle in her bright eyes, Caroline could find wonder in the simplest thing, and she always wore that smile.

The one that warmed Clara's heart with its innocence.

The one she fell _just a little bit in love_ with when she allowed herself to feel.

Rounding the corner into the bedroom, her body calmed because this was one of those moments. It was also one of those nights she needed the _benefits_ they'd agreed to one drunken night that came with their friendship, one she guiltily took advantage of on occasion, knowing the woman before her carried more than a small crush on her. But Clara needed to feel human and she needed to feel normal despite the pull of her muscles and the chaos in her mind.

She gave Caroline's knee a small nudge, watched the other woman peer up at her curiously, just before the devious thought settled into her mind and she inched up to meet Clara halfway, their lips pressing lightly into one another. There was a rustle of paper as the notepad fell to the ground and she felt the soft fingertips that slid over her arms and curled around her back to pull her closer as they dropped down on the bed. She released a soft moan and felt Caroline's intake of breath as she found the zipper to her onesie and dragged it down over her, shifting her lips down to the other woman's collar and then trailing over every inch of new skin revealed to her.

Her towel came undone and she tugged it aside, inching back up to straddle her flat mate and grin down at her, earning a crooked smile in return as Caroline reached for her waist, her hands massaging at her flesh and then urging her back down atop her. Clara closed her eyes as she felt the roaming palms find her breasts and she groaned as Caroline pivoted her waist, sending Clara tumbling to the bed at her side. She laughed then, watching the other woman stand on the bed and struggle to maintain balance as she freed herself from her onesie and let it fall to the floor before bouncing back over her, instantly on her neck.

Clara pushed aside the thoughts of work and the Doctor and the pounding of her heart, and she reveled in the way Caroline's mouth felt exploring her way down over her body. Carefully, knowingly, _tenderly_. She buried the past in the back of her mind as her legs were pushed open and the delicate testing kisses turned into gentle laps of her tongue and then broader passes over her that made her pant as she tilted her pelvis into her. She released a small strangled cry as Caroline slid a single digit into her, and then exhaled as it became two, working leisurely at first, strokes slow and steady to match her tongue's.

Then her pace quickened, fingers urging at her as her mouth clamped down and sucked lightly before her tongue swirled over her, flicking at her just hard enough to send a shock of pleasure up through her body, lifting her left knee up slightly as her back arched. Caroline's left hand moved over her skin, massaging at her until it settled around her right breast, and Clara laid her hand atop it, urging her to squeeze at her flesh as she groaned, a sound that elicited a small chuckle from the woman who shifted back and paused, exposing her to the cooler air before she dipped forward again, lips devouring her.

She cried out as she came, body tensing and then collapsing as Caroline lazily kissed at her for just a moment longer before crawling up to lay at her side, fingers of her right hand making their way over Clara's thigh and stomach as she pecked her lips to her shoulder.

Turning towards her, Clara moved to nudge Caroline's left knee away, but the other woman shook her head shyly, sighing nervously, "You don't have to reciprocate."

Clara laughed, climbing over her, right hand reaching down to tease gently between flatmate's legs, watching the way her eyes closed and she bit her lip as Clara offered, "Doesn't seem fair, you getting all the fun."

With a strangled laugh, Caroline nodded slowly, and Clara kissed at her jaw, giving her neck a small lick as she reached up to brush the thumb of her right hand over the other woman's breast. She giggled as she watched Caroline's pale cheeks go red, and then she bent to take her hardened nipple into her mouth, reveling in the choked moan it earned her, and the fingers that dove into her hair. Suckling lightly, she let her hand drift again, slipping over the other woman's clean mound and then finding the wetness within her folds with a humph of approval.

Her middle finger slid over her, tip teasing at her entrance as she kissed her way to her other breast, listening to the breathing growing heavier. And then she slipped into her, curling her finger deeply and then edging back out as she exhaled. Pushing up on her left palm, Clara settled that moistened finger onto her tongue and she sucked it clean of her juices, head dizzy at the saline tinged taste of her flatmate, and she grinned, watching Caroline's hard swallow.

Inching forward, she kissed the other woman, her knee lifting to press her thigh between Caroline's legs and she shifted against her, feeling the slickness beginning to wet her skin. Clara laughed darkly and she settled more of her weight into the other woman, feeling the small inhale she offered in response as she repetitively ground her thigh against her, and when her lips shifted away, Clara clamped hers to her neck, giving the skin there a light welt before she pulled away entirely, smiling as she reached to slip her fingers into her again.

Clara watched her hands come up to grip at her pillow and she bent to kiss at her breasts, working a rhythm into her for a few moments before her thumb found her clitoris and she swirled a delicate circle over it as Caroline muttered lightly, " _Shit_ , English."

They shared a quiet laugh at the familiar nickname, and then Clara inched back, biting her lip as she concentrated on alternating the movements between her fingers and her thumb, gauging how close Caroline was to her own climax. It wouldn't be long, she knew, and just before she reached it, she moved her hand away, turning and bending to run her tongue strongly over her – that one last blow she needed – and as the woman shouted out, body squirming, Clara sealed her lips onto her, gently coaxing her on.

She drank her up, one hand soothingly stroking at Caroline's skin as a small string of half curses escaped her on gasps. _Americans_ , Clara thought as she lifted her head and looked to the blonde lying calmly with a small smile on her reddened lips. She crawled slowly up the bed, spreading her naked body down beside her flatmate's and she offered the night a long sigh of contentment before her mind slowly returned to the Doctor and the events of that day.

Clara should have known it would.

The bed groaned under the other woman's movements and Clara felt her press her body to hers, hand roaming over her side. "So," Caroline began lightly from just behind her, "What's really on your mind?"

She turned to see the tired blue eyes that peered back cautiously at her, knowingly, she knew, even as she laughed and responded, "What do you mean?"

The hand at her waist tightened just a moment before Caroline sighed and explained, "This is great and all – _I am always up for and appreciate the sex_ – but you tend to do this when you need a distraction," she trailed, eyes roaming the room before finding hers again, "So what am I distracting you from tonight?"

Reaching to take her hand, intertwining their fingers delicately, Clara sighed, "You're not a distraction, Caroline."

But the other woman rolled her eyes, again, knowingly.

"It's a mission I was assigned to at the start of my career with UNIT; it was why I joined," she allowed, knowing she had to be careful just how much information she gave a civilian. She looked to the opposite wall to admit, "I was tasked with killing a man and I thought I'd done it, but he appeared earlier today and I'm worried I... I'm worried that..." she hesitated, not wanting to say it.

"You killed the wrong man," Caroline finished, and Clara could feel her fingers squeeze gently. Felt her body mold tighter into hers to comfort her because Caroline was one of the few who knew that behind the title and behind the uniform and behind the facade she had to give to the world – Clara was vulnerable and fragile and heartbroken.

"What if I did?" Clara sighed. "I had orders to shoot, a General in my ear shouting to take the shot."

"And you doubted him then?"

"I'd never seen the face of the man I had to kill," which wasn't entirely true, she just knew that face changed, "What if we were wrong about him then?"

She heard the other woman give a sad laugh, "You're doubting _everything_ now, aren't you."

"The man before, he had an air of the devil about him, but this man?" Clara bit her lip against the thought, but then she released it anyways out of trust, "This man seemed harmless, _loving_ even – he said my name in a way that was _familiar_."

There was no real way to explain it. The Doctor spoke her name like a prayer. Like a _promise_. But she didn't know what that promise was really, she just felt it in her heart and then she overrode her heart and shot him with her stun gun. She called in his capture and she rode alongside him in the back of a truck, all the while searching out the lines on his face for the reason he felt so familiar.

For the reason she wanted to save him.

"It's nonsensical," she finally surmised.

Caroline laughed and offered, "You're nonsensical, Clara."

She turned to smirk at her, to nod and whisper, "I am, aren't I."

They shared a laugh and Clara shifted to kiss her, appreciative of her presence and her understanding, and then she snuggled into her, reaching out to flick off the lamp beside the bed, ready to be done with this day. After a few minutes, she felt the body behind her soften, relaxing with sleep, but she found she couldn't. Not until almost three in the morning, when her heart rate finally slowed and the burning muscles in her body cooled just enough. And she quietly dozed off with a single inexplicable thought on her mind.

 _I have to save the Doctor_.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been impossible to sleep, or it had been made impossible for him _to_ sleep, and the Doctor had tried. The IV in his left hand pained him in a strange way that frustrated him. His whole body pained him, and he knew it was what they were giving him. _So many years to study the Doctor_ , the General had told him, they'd figured out a way or two of hurting him.

The first had been to strip him of his Tardis and Sonic – things that were being kept hidden somewhere, the Doctor assumed, not nearby. General Wallace made a point of telling him they'd recovered the blue box, the Doctor's only solace was knowing they couldn't work their way inside without him. But he knew them hiding it would make things harder. Obviously they wouldn't want him escaping and handily finding his tools so quickly, and they knew he had a knack for escaping imprisonment.

Second was to strip him of his clothes – the psychology, he knew, was to disarm him of part of his identity, to throw off his persona _just a smidge_. People didn't consider just how much a simple outfit could be a coat of armor to a person. Except students opposed to uniforms, he thought with a snarl. Ask any student forced to wear a uniform and they would tell you how restrictive it was. How it dulled one in an unforgiveable way.

At least the garb they'd provided was grey. He scoffed at the idea of orange now, though the image did bring a momentary smirk to his tired lips. Then he grimaced, because a new wave of warmth moved up his arm and coursed through his body and he understood. Weaken your enemy by striping them bare of their essentials and then? Then came the third: pain to break them.

Then came the drugs.

The ones stinging through his cells in a way he imagined would be worse to a human – he counted on that – but it bothered him that they would even consider it a tactic. Physical brutality he was accustomed to; chemical warfare seemed unnecessarily advanced. Though he imagined they saved the tactic for the likes of him. Alien beings that might not budge under normal circumstances.

They wouldn't tell him what it was – part of the _psychology_ , he knew; leave him trying to figure it out so he could work out antidotes while it became more and more impossible to think through the pain. Pain that was becoming quickly unbearable and now he could _hear_ the effects it had on his heartbeats. Another part of the psychology, knowing they knew it affected him. A monitor sat at his side, the beeping loudly becoming faster and faster as the red and blue lines spiked together within two boxes.

One for each of his hearts.

"Ah, come on," he growled. "You can do better than that!"

Something at his side clicked and he felt another sear of fire roll up his arm and through his body. Enough to make him clench his teeth, almost enough to make him loose his concentration, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough – they'd have to kill him, and he knew they weren't willing to do that so quickly.

"Come on," he hissed, " _Come on_ , Clara."

Three stories above him, Clara stumbled as she walked beside a fellow Captain, her sentence dissolving into nonsense. They were going over paperwork, they were joking about their troops, they were talking about lunch plans and dinner plans and how their nights had gone. And she bit down, but a whimper escaped her as she continued to fall, despite her best efforts to keep upright. The warmth that had been plaguing her all morning worked her body into an instant cold sweat as the pain increased and she found herself curled into a ball on the ground, hugging herself as she struggled not to cry.

She could hear the man at her side calling her name; could hear him shouting out for help and she opened her eyes just enough to see the chaos of papers around her, folders laid flat just under her knee and hip, all of her belongings she'd failed to hold onto as she collapsed from the sourceless pain. Clara couldn't understand what was happening, but she knew – she _absolutely_ knew – it had something to do with the Doctor.

 _He was in her head_.

The thought was instantaneous as she felt herself being straightened as she fought. It hurt less to be on her side, she wanted to say, it hurt less to tuck her knees into her stomach, but she only hissed in agony as they tugged at her limbs. Clara felt someone touch her forehead and then her cheek, and then she was lifted onto a wooden gurney, her head strapped down tightly. Then her arms and legs. A prisoner against her will with no way to explain.

 _The Doctor, it's the bloody Doctor_.

"Is it a seizure?" Someone prompted, and a rag was suddenly forced between her teeth, held taut to prevent her from biting her tongue, but she knew it wasn't that.

Clara had been Captain long enough to know what it was – she was feeling the effects of a torture drug, one she knew she hadn't been given, one she couldn't understand why she was feeling the effects of at all. Except she absolutely knew.

They were giving it to the Doctor, and _somehow_ he was in her mind, _transferring the pain_.

 _Why_?

She could see the lights above her flickering through closed eyes as they passed each one, and they turned a corner. Someone argued they should get her superior, someone else suggested they call her mum. Maybe she had some medical malady they weren't aware of. People lied all the time on their medical sheets. Someone questioned lowly whether she'd taken something herself and Clara felt warm tears drip over her temples, temples that were throbbing with a headache that scorched her thoughts.

 _Come on, Clara. Come and ask me why_.

She screamed through the rag as they rushed her into in an emergency medical bay, setting her down on a bed, hands gripping tightly to her limbs as they undid the restraints of the gurney and slipped her into new ones. New ones that held more firmly and she felt them prick her shoulder with a sedative. Something that stopped her ferocity to move, but didn't dull the pain. Something that left her moping pathetically and eventually she fell unconscious.

Three floors below, a short time later, the Doctor smiled when the door finally opened again and he watched as the General entered the room, a long sigh on his lips, his fingers tapping a thin tablet in his hands. He didn't look as upset as the Doctor had hoped, merely _annoyed_ – not really his intention. He waited as the man approached, shifting as best he could on the bed within his restraints and noting that the IV had not burned him in over an hour.

At least he thought it'd been an hour, more or less.

Satisfied with what his tablet showed, he looked up at the Doctor and then twisted it quickly into his line of sight, a simple, "Happy now," escaping him in a frustrated huff.

On the screen was a surveillance camera from within the building, date and time stamped on the bottom right corner, location on the left – UNIT HOSP BAY 2 – and on the screen the Doctor could see a patient laid out in the bed, intubated, her breathing steady and regular, controlled by a pump at her side. His own breath left him momentarily as he whispered her name, knowing he gave away far too much in those two syllables because the man beside him huffed a laugh.

"That's right, Doctor, whatever it was you did, we had to induce a coma to stop," he twisted the view away, eliciting a small noise of discontent involuntarily from the Doctor, and then the man stared, "You've definitely got my attention."

The Doctor responded gruffly, "I said I'd speak with Clara and only Clara."

He gestured, "And as you can see, you put her in the hospital."

"She should be fine now, you can take her off the machines and the drugs," he spat.

"What," the General started with a point to the Doctor with his tablet, "Exactly did you do to her?"

Taking a long breath, the Doctor stared into the General who stood, waiting, and he imagined the man was genuinely curious. Of course he would be, he knew, he'd probably spent his career learning everything he could about him only to be left baffled by a missing piece of information – a _private_ piece shared between him and his Clara. One that brought a quick and simple grin to his lips, erased easily by the knowledge of her death.

"What have _you_ done to her?" The Doctor asked.

"I asked first," Wallace quipped.

With an eye roll, the Doctor allowed honestly, "Psychic bond – formed ages ago on another planet, I counted on that link still being active with her." It was _mostly_ the truth.

He gestured towards a space behind him and laughed, "You've never met the Captain."

Staring into him, the Doctor spat, "You know exactly what I mean." Then he asked, "Now tell me what _you_ did to _her_."

Shrugging, Wallace replied, "You mean why does she want to put a bullet in you so badly?" The Doctor looked away and Wallace asked, "Have you been outside, Doctor?"

"Yes," he shot with a scowl. "War. Humans love war."

"You started this war."

He turned, "I've done no such thing."

"You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you Doctor – but that's what you do." He stabbed at the air with a finger, explaining, "You jump in that blue box of yours, hopping around all over time and space poking at events you shouldn't be messing with and you light all of these little fires, running away before you can extinguish them and you know who's left to deal with them?"

The man looked to his tablet and he swiped the screen, twisting it to show Clara's UNIT identification photo, letting the Doctor soak in the image. Because it was Clara, but she was hardened, eyes filled with enough sadness and anger to water his own eyes; because it was so radically different from his Clara – from even the image he'd seen in his Tardis before he'd landed. There was an emptiness to her that pained him and he looked back up to see the General studying him.

"There's a saying, Doctor, that it is the privilege of lesser men to light the fire through which great men are forged." He tapped the screen, and swiped, turning it again to show the Doctor a series of photos of Clara in the field, gun poised in her hand, shouting orders at troops, being given medals by men and women he presumed were running this war torn country now. "You started a bonfire, Doctor, and she is grand."

Watching the man smile, watching him turn the tablet back towards him to continue looking through the images with a breathy laugh shaking out of his chest, the Doctor felt his blood burning. He could hear the monitors at his left beeping erratically and he growled, "You wake her up and you bring her here."

Glancing to the Doctor, the General asked in amusement, "Or else what?"

Snarling, the Doctor told him simply, "I'll show you a real bonfire."


	6. Chapter 6

Entering the room slowly, Clara looked to the man sitting at the edge of the bed with a twinge of hatred, knowing somehow he'd caused her ailments over the past twenty four hours. Somehow he'd taken his pain and he'd transferred it to her. For _what_? She wanted to stumble towards him and grab him by his pale skinny throat to demand an answer, but she knew it looked weak. _Desperation_ was _weakness_. Her starting off this quasi interrogation with her fear was a weakness and she clenched her jaw against the small smile he offered her.

The small familiar smile and the way his hand rose up to give her a wave.

"Good to see you're feeling better," she growled.

He gestured back towards the machinery at his bedside, jesting, "Not being injected with poison every hour does wonders."

She grinned, but it wasn't pleasant, and she felt a surge of satisfaction at seeing his features shift slightly, understanding dawning – she hoped – that Clara wasn't as pleased to see him as he'd wanted her to be. They simply stared at one another now, each taking the other in; each creating a superficial analysis based on what they saw. It was difficult, Clara knew, because they wore identical grey hospital suits.

Both had lost the color in their skin and both wore haggard expressions of exhaustion. And both were determined not to show the pain they were in. Clara was surprised to find she felt a sort of betrayal. There was no real reason for her to feel that way – feelings of betrayal should be reserved for people one had once known, but she'd never known the Doctor.

Except she did.

Somewhere in the back of her mind there was a foggy memory of a handsome face with a gaping smile and a flop of hair. There, tucked away like a secret, she held the feel of his warm palm pressed to her cheek; she knew the weight of his arm around her shoulder. Clara knew the way his lips felt, firm to her forehead and for just quick moment, her heart thudded in her chest and she felt the color rise on her cheeks.

And she saw the hope in that man's now twinkling eyes as they watched her. As though he knew perfectly well what she'd been thinking, and Clara blinked her eyes shut, pushing those thoughts away with the strangest notion that he could read her mind. Of course, she told herself, that was a ridiculous thought. But then, she'd read the Doctor's file a thousand times and even though there were no warnings for it, she knew well enough that he'd somehow shared his pain with her until the General relented.

Until she'd been woken and told, " _You'll have that meeting with the Doctor now, Captain_."

"Go on," the Doctor prompted, one hand waving her forward, "Ask it."

"Can you read my mind?" Clara grunted at him angrily.

He shook his head and told her simply, "No, Clara, I cannot read your mind."

She was ready to accept it, but then he smiled curiously and she spat, "What?"

"Well," he sighed, "I can't just read your mind like this," he gestured between them, "You over there like you're observing a wild animal through a cage at a zoo." He laughed.

"Then you can," she shot, gesturing between them the way he'd done, "You can read my mind."

"If you come closer..." he trailed.

She barked a laugh and it startled him, and then she hissed, "You mean to trick me."

"There's no trick, Clara," he told her gently.

"Oh," she told him on a nod, "There's always a trick with you."

He frowned then, looking to the mirror on the wall of this new room through which he knew they were being observed, and he asked quietly, "What, _exactly_ , have they told you about me?"

Glancing sideways, not quite looking to the mirror, Clara considered it. She'd been given a file, a file that told her he was an alien from another planet. Gallifreyan, with the rank of Time Lord. He'd helped save humanity too many times to count, but he'd also done atrocious things in the name of peace. He'd _killed_ in the name of peace, she knew, but hadn't they done the same. She turned her eyes to him, seeing him waiting with trepidation for her answer.

"You're the Doctor," she finally stated simply.

His head lowered slightly and his eyes looked upon his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "They've redacted just enough of the background to create an assassin," he smiled up at her sadly, "I've played this game before." His eyebrows lifted and dropped back down and she watched his shoulders slump in defeat. "Guess that means you know worse than nothing."

Stomach sinking, Clara knew what he meant – he thought she was being manipulated; he thought she was uninformed and if she knew the whole of the truth, she'd hold a highly different opinion of him. Looking back to the mirror, dropping her guard entirely, she thought about the man behind the glass and how he'd treated her over the years, knew there'd always been an air of patronization. Knew there'd always been a layer of distrust between them.

Then she turned back to look at the Doctor. At the way he pressed his thumbs together and simply continued to watch his hands. Could be a manipulation tactic in itself, she knew. Separate her from voices that would refute his claims and then give her a sad set of eyes and hope to win her sympathies. Clara steadied her breathing and she took a step closer to the Doctor, nodding slowly when his head come up to stare curiously.

Not with a look of triumph that he'd somehow won her over, but with a simple cautious wonder because he knew he hadn't won her, but he had piqued her interest and it... _surprised him_?

"You told the General you'd only speak to me," she began softly, almost inaudibly, trying to appeal to the part of him that had – according to her file – loved the woman she resembled. "What did you want to say?"

He gave her a chuckle and then he surmised, "Who's the trickster now?"

Seeing straight through her.

With a point of his finger, he explained, "You're a soldier following orders now, obviously done a good enough job of it, rising through the ranks to Captain, but what you have to understand is while you believe you've mastered your moves on the board – while you've patted yourself on the back over it – you've no clue just who stands over your piece, shifting you about." His finger turned, making a circle in between them, "This is all a game of cat and mouse except you're the cheese, Clara."

"You're mixing your metaphors, Doctor," she spat at him.

"Says the English teacher," he shouted back.

Clara frowned in confusion and took another step forward, voice shaky as she questioned, "What do _you_ know about _me_?"

"Nothing," he laughed, shoulders shrugging exaggeratedly.

She stared, eyes growing wider as she wondered about something – about whether or not he'd been lying when he'd said he could read her mind – and then she shook the thought away and told him blankly, "I'm not an English teacher."

"Of course _you're_ not," he responded automatically, then he narrowed his eyes at her playfully, "Thought about it, didn't you though. Before all of this."

She almost turned away, but she held her ground, admitting, "I'd done some schooling towards it, yes."

"Why turn to the military then?" He questioned. "I mean, I understand UNIT – they're just using you against me, willing to wager I'm to blame for this war, though I've no recollection of how I could be responsible – but why shift entirely from schooling to becoming an officer?"

Clara raised her chin and admitted, "I was recruited to the military just after graduation, transferred into UNIT later on – we're in wartime, Doctor, joining a branch of the armed forces is a viable option for everyone as soon as they come of age. My dad was an officer, I'd been considering it..."

Nodding, he interrupted her, "I can see the reasoning for joining, especially when the world is collapsing around you. You want to make a better world, you have a sense of duty to country, but why _continue_ after you've seen what that choice comes with?" He frowned with disgust and Clara felt a touch ashamed. Then he elaborated loudly and with a gesture towards the mirror, "This, _all of this_ , it must all sicken your stomach – the weapons, the deception, the destruction, the _death_!" The Doctor dropped off the edge of the bedding and he pointed to her accusingly, "You're not a _soldier_ , Clara. You're capable of so much more – of so much peace."

"Sometimes peace comes with a price," Clara growled, almost automatically, and she realized it then. It'd been hammered into her so often she didn't think about it. Was that part of the deception the Doctor spoke of? An indoctrination into this world. Except she knew she'd been deceiving _herself_ with those words for _years_.

"But what price had to be paid to drive you to the rank of Captain – you're barely 30, can't imagine you've been in the services for..." he trailed and looked up into the way her eyes were hardening. The way her whole body had stiffened. "Oh," he breathed.

"Oh, what?" Clara groaned through clenched teeth.

"A child," he told her, and he watched the crack form in the facade as the two words sank in.

She straightened, shaking away her emotions, and he winced, one hand coming up to grip at his forehead and she thought maybe she saw sorrow soaking his features as she took yet another step closer. Dangerously close, she knew, for now he was within arm's reach as she responded sharply, "Don't you speak as if you _know_ me, Doctor. Don't speak as if you know _anything_ about me!"

"Who was it, Clara?" He asked lightly, almost sympathetically, she thought to herself.

"You don't know me," she warned, chin trembling.

"A younger brother, a student, a charge – you have a knack for picking up charges," his grin was broken, saddened before he'd gotten an answer. As though maybe he already knew.

A voice boomed over an intercom, " _Captain, step away from the prisoner_."

"It was a result of the war, their death?" The Doctor continued, ignoring the way Clara's eyes were watering as she watched him. He stepped towards her and she shifted back. "And this is how you repay them? You fight on in their memory, for their honor, Clara?"

"Shut up," she warned. Her mind had gone to static and her heart was pounding erratically in her chest, sending a swell of heat over her body. "You shut up."

" _Captain, step away from the prisoner_!" A second warning voice ordered.

The Doctor frowned and he looked her over, trying to find something he'd missed when she'd first walked in. Something he'd missed when he'd first seen her when he arrived. The veins in her neck were pulsing and he could see the collar bones just above the edge of her top and his eyes continued to trail over her, following her left arm down to the thin white scar at her wrist, sliced up towards her elbow.

Four inches long, with an unfinished twin on her right.

Suicide attempt.

"One mourns the loss of a child," he began softly, reaching out quickly to take hold of each wrist. To twist them up so she knew what he'd seen, "Because it's a hope that's been stripped from this world before their potential can be reached – one mourns because that child was pure potential. A whole lifetime simply vanishing." Her eyes were welling up as he finished, "It was your child," just before his fingertips leapt stealthily to grasp her head, thumbs pressed into her temples.

Clara shouted as her eyes closed and she knew what he'd done. She hated him in that moment because he pushed past her defenses before she could even create them, digging into her memories to see the flashes of her history. Just enough for him to understand. Just enough for her to feel that loss break her heart all over again. To seep her in a misery she thought she'd numbed herself to.

The head full of dark hair that spun in her direction at the park.

The green eyes that disappeared in a smile.

The dimpled cheeks.

The tiny wave.

" _Hi, mummy_ ," that small voice weakly broke the silence.

Clara could feel the arms that gripped hers, tugging her away and ripping her from the warmth of those memories and back into the cold harshness of the real world around her and it took her a moment to realize the howl of pain was no longer in her mind, but escaping her lips. She struggled against the men holding her and when her eyes opened, it was to trail heavy tears over her cheeks – to clear her vision just enough to see the man on the ground a few feet away, a troubled look haunting his face.

"I'm so sorry, Clara," he was telling her, mouthing really, because the words barely made it past his pale lips. And then he uttered the name just loud enough. The Doctor tenderly uttered the two syllables that sent Clara into the rage necessary to break free from her confines. " _Charlie_."

" _DON'T YOU DARE SAY HIS NAME_!"

The men on either side of her shouted out as she lunged out of their grasps, her hands easily rounding the Doctor's throat as she straddled him, slamming him into the ground. Clara squeezed and she could feel his bony fingers trying to pry her off him and she expected to see anger in his eyes – to mirror her own – but she only found a wordless apology. One that distracted her just enough for them to pull her away.

" _You're_ responsible for his death, Doctor," she shouted.

He shook his head, coughing and touching at the skin of his neck.

But Clara reiterated loudly as they pulled her to her feet, " _You_ killed him."

She tugged at her arms, but they held her firm and she waited, looking to the Doctor as he raised his eyes to meet hers, that horror – as though it were _his_ son he'd just been told had died – still there as he wheezed, "They've lied to you, Clara."

Head dropping, she turned away, going with the men now ushering her towards the exit. She could see the General, just outside, his face an ashen color she'd never seen on him. Not even during the Cardiff bombings two years ago. She heard the Doctor repeat his words and she took a long breath, listening as the door slammed and then he began to shout as they lifted him back onto the bed. To restrain him.

Clara wanted to hate him.

But for some inexplicable reason, she believed him.


	7. Chapter 7

The chair Clara sat in swiveled slightly as someone bumped her from behind, to get around to the other side of the chaos. That's what the room felt like to her – chaos. Twelve angry men, she managed to smirk, all at a loss for what to do and refusing to offer the two options Clara thought were obvious. Firstly, if the Doctor was going to choose to somehow telepathically link himself to her to share the pain of his torture, then let him. She could be sedated. Second, she could go in and talk to him again.

"Captain Palmer," the General's voice grumbled, "I know what's going through that thick head of yours and it's absolutely out of the question."

She raised her eyes slowly to the room. To the silence working its way around the table as the focus turned to her, swiveling just enough in the chair to give two small squeaks. "I don't see why we should leave anything off the table – seems like the Doctor is a great enemy, we should be willing to suffer consequences for answers."

"I don't see why we don't just off him now," another General grumbled.

Clara turned sharply to him, "Because we don't know if he's the Doctor."

With a laugh, Wallace pointed out, "Looked like he'd gotten into your head – something we know the Doctor is quite capable of doing."

"It's a Gallifreyan thing," Clara muttered, "Or a Time Lord thing."

"Are you suggesting there are more survivors of Gallifrey in the universe?" Wallace asked.

On a quick nod, Clara answered, "The man I scanned a few months back? The man I killed? He was Gallifreyan and he claimed to be the Doctor as well." She shrugged, "This could be the same man, new face – or this could be someone trying to deceive us."

"Why deceive us?" someone on her right asked.

"To be an arse," Clara spat, "Who knows what his motivations are, or even who he is?" She continued, "But are we just going to let him sit in that room and hope he tells us?" Then she sighed, "You know he's just going to ask to speak to me again, don't you?"

"We'll tell him he can't; not after that stunt he pulled," Wallace grunted.

Clara shook her head, "I think I should."

"No offense, Captain, but we can't have you compromised like that again."

"What?" Clara shot, "Angry? Enraged, even? Or was it the tears." She exhaled a long breath and when she spoke again, it was with disdain, "A man loses his temper during an interrogation," she looked to one particular on her left, "He punches a hole in a wall and we cover it up and we have a laugh at his strength later, but a woman losing her temper during an interrogation is cause for concern? Is grounds for her removal?"

Raising a hand, Wallace called, "We're not removing you."

"You might as well," she said on a frustrated laugh.

"Are you asking to be removed?" He asked bluntly.

Clara leaned forward, "I'm asking to be read in."

"You know you don't have clearance."

She turned away with a quick inhale, and then nodded, turning back and standing, pressing her knuckles into the table in front of her, looking around the room as she chewed the inside of her lip. "I don't have clearance," she breathed in disbelief. "I just had an alien invade my bloody head and you won't give me access to him because I don't have the clearance?" She laughed. "Has it ever occurred to you that if he can transfer his pain, he can transfer his thoughts?"

"It has occurred to us," Wallace admitted, "It's also occurred to us that he could, if he wanted to, take over your body entirely and use you to attack us – it's occurred to us that it's not really you talking to us and demanding information."

She nodded and fell back into the chair in defeat, because she knew he was absolutely right. Then she managed to respond, "I take it then that I'm a prisoner now, just as much as he is."

"You're not a prisoner," he explained and she imagined he sounded more frustrated than relieved and she suddenly felt small in that room – like a child at the grown-up's table being told to wait for dessert.

Clara nodded, "I should talk to him again."

"I think it's best if you went home," Wallace allowed. "Rest for the night, you've had one hell of a day."

"Talk to him tomorrow, then?" She chanced.

He clenched his jaw and released a long breath before calling, "You're dismissed, Captain Palmer."

Clara watched him for just a moment before she pushed up and turned, walking out of the room, remembering when she was a few steps into the hall that she probably should have saluted. She imagined she'd be forgiven, since she'd only been an hour out of a coma. Making her way back to the medical unit to get the belongings she'd been admitted with, she wondered how much she could get away with, using the excuse of her medical status.

" _Mind just wasn't in the right place is all_ ," she imagined telling Wallace with a grin. She signed for her clothes – changing into the uniform almost immediately to feel less like an escaped mental patient – and her access card and as she moved towards her office, she slapped the item against her palm several times before looking down at it and getting an idea.

Clara moved into her office and locked the door behind her, going to her desk and calling, "Computer on," listening to it confirm that it recognized her before she ordered, "Manual entry," and a keyboard appeared on the flat space in front of her.

It'd been a long time since she'd tried her hand at hacking anything, but she pulled up a prompt, ignoring a warning, and held her breath as she began to type. A fury of keystrokes later, she was looking at the Doctor's _full_ file. A file that held photos and names and dates and information she'd never been told. UNIT had held a favorable relationship with him until the start of the war. He hadn't _started_ it. He'd simply been blamed for missing an appointment.

A single moment in time.

She swiped the information aside and typed quickly, staring at the name that sat in glowing white letters on the space in front of her, feeling a jolt of sadness because it had been quite some time since she'd seen it written it out in full. Not since she'd had to look at a tombstone in a graveyard.

CHARLES OSWIN PALMER.

She hesitated, finger over the button that would bring up a full report of her son's death. It would bring up his autopsy report and it would bring up his photos. One taken just weeks before his death at school and one taken just hours after. It would bring up the newspaper clippings that showed their last photo together, a photo she never wanted to see again. Of her holding tight to his lifeless body. But she had to know if the Doctor was right.

Had she been lied to.

Had the report she'd been fed – that the Doctor had been the one to detonate bombs at ten schools around London – been a lie all of this time to fuel her hatred. To motivate her to sign on to a special forces team designed to take out the Doctor. One she'd declined to join before. Clara's finger tapped the button and she braced herself for the worst, but she was met with simple words. Pages of internal memos and charts. She frowned, reading along, and then she threw up, retching up what little her stomach held onto the carpet beside her because she'd been lied to – the Doctor was right – but she hadn't expected…

The monitor went red, flashing a warning, and she struggled to regain her composure, to exit out of the programs and stumble away from her desk in a haze of confusion. Clara pulled her backpack over her shoulders and she grabbed at her keys, quickly opening the window to her office and plucking the gun from her side holster to shoot out a camera.

She moved down along a storm drain and broke a window in an office underneath her, shifting inside and rushing through the door and into the hallway. As she ran towards the room where she knew the Doctor was being held, she fought off the burn of tears and the rancid taste of bile creeping up her throat again. Pushing through a set of double doors, she shouted at the guard on duty, "Open the doors, the prisoner needs to be checked on."

The man's head gave a subtle shake, but he looked her over and she realized – he'd been one of the guards who had escorted her out. He finally swallowed and explained, "Captain, I'm under strict orders not to open this door."

"He's in my head," she whispered, inching forward, "And he's trying to escape."

She could only hope they didn't sound an external alarm.

The guard looked nervous as he told her sadly, "I'm really sorry, Captain Palmer, I can't open this door."

Nodding slowly, Clara exhaled and replied, "I'm sorry, you won't have to."

His brow knotted in confusion and in that moment, she swung her palm up into his throat and then kneed him in the groin, bending quickly to strip him of his rifle and slam it down on his head. Closing her eyes and taking a breath, she muttered another apology and took his card, swiping the door and just as she locked eyes with the man lying on the bed, the alarm began to blare. Clara rushed across the room and quickly undid his restraints, ignoring the look of confusion he was giving her and when he stood, she moved towards the door, peering out cautiously before waving him forward.

"I don't understand," the Doctor managed to state.

Clara turned swiftly and spat, "You were right, they lied to me." Then she told him lowly, "UNIT killed my son."


	8. Chapter 8

He was accustomed to violence, and he knew _his_ Clara could be driven to shoot a gun or threaten a life if she needed to – he'd seen her do it; he'd practically _enabled_ her to – but he watched as they moved through the building, her gun firing off bright pulse after pulse, cutting through the hearts of men and women trying to stop them. Trained. Calculated. _Cold_. And it turned his stomach to see the hatred in her eyes as they moved towards the stairs and she carefully maneuvered them up to the roof because, she argued under her breath, they wouldn't expect that.

"They'll expect that I'll go for my Jeep," she told him, more out of a need to keep calm, he knew, than actually inform him.

The Doctor swallowed roughly, trailing after her while his head swam warmly with nausea at knowing this echo could be this person, and when they pushed through the roof, he held his breath as she fired two shots that dotted the heads of men who looked too young to be holding the weapons they had. Too young to die. She crouched slightly and began to move, shouting at him to stay close, but he remained, frozen in place just a few paces from the door.

"You've truly become the soldier," he muttered at the space in front of him, eyes almost refusing to find the Clara who stood a few feet away. But he forced himself to, to reconcile that terrible fact. It was a time of inexplicable war on Earth and Clara had become a killer.

She turned then, aware he wasn't right behind her, and he could see the darkness in her eyes – not the brown he could stare into for hours if it weren't frowned upon, but the abyss of vengeance and pain that drove her. He understood what she wanted in that moment. She wanted to be as far from UNIT as possible so that she could assemble a plan to return destroy them.

The revenge of a woman who'd been lied to. A woman who had been used to do terrible things thinking she was advancing a noble cause. A woman who had been living in a world of lies and now saw that world crumble around her with one truth – the true cause of her only child's death. This would become the retaliation of a scorned mother.

 _He knew that wrath well._

"Come on," she called.

"Clara," he breathed, watching her as she waited, her hair flapping around her head almost like a dark cloud, muddying her thoughts. "Clara, this is _insane_."

She gestured to a helicopter on the landing pad on the roof and shouted at him angrily, "We have to escape; we have to get out."

Part of him understood, because part of him wanting nothing more than to be somewhere else with her, but he knew he was thinking to _actual_ Clara, not this _echo_ he'd just watched kill thirteen people without batting an eyelash. Shaking his head lightly, he responded as loudly as he could, "To what, return and murder again."

Her face hardened in an instant – so quickly it shocked him, for he hadn't realized she'd allowed herself to soften for him – and he watched with surprise as she raised her gun at him, "You come with me or you _die here_ , _pointlessly_ , and _very far_ from home."

The Doctor bowed his head and lifted his hands in acceptance, because he was certain she would shoot him otherwise, then gave her a nod, "Your prisoner now, eh, Clara?"

"Get in the bloody helicopter," she shouted, frustration evident in her voice and he was thankful for that – for the frustration and not the anger... he knew she could be reasoned with at some point. He watched her go to the machine and turn the engine over.

The propeller blades began to spin rapidly just as he took his first step towards it. Towards her, because he knew his goal now was to subdue her in some manor, at some point, wherever they ended up. And then he felt the sharp pierce of a laser pulse zip through his back, just short of his spine, and out through his chest. If he'd been able to, he would have laughed – by some miracle they missed his hearts. Instead, the Doctor cried out in pain and tumbled forward, remaining upright. A second shot ripped through his left shoulder and he could hear Clara returning fire now, stomping her way towards him to help him remain standing because he was losing the ability to do so.

She half dragged him, ordering him to remain calm – explaining roughly that she'd make sure he lived as he nodded obediently, listening to her words of encouragement as she jumped into the chopper and struggled to pull him inside until he sat. She pushed him, urging him to lay down as she continued to talk and he knew it was her attempt to keep him conscious.

Telling him she had medical training and he'd be alright, and he swore her voice softened as she left him after a simple, "Guess I'm _the_ _doctor_ now."

It made him attempt to chuckle as she rounded the chopper, all the while firing at random points now firing upon them. His eyes closed and he heard her grunt as she climbed into the pilot's seat. He could hear her cursing as they lifted off the ground. The Doctor tried to stay awake as she yelled at the chopper to fly true, but he fell unconscious anyways, listening to Clara's voice as he shifted about under her erratic piloting.

" _Going for a little adventure eh, Doctor, you and me_?"

He opened his eyes to a white space and gasped, sitting straight up to look down at his regular getup, the clean button up white shirt underneath his jacket. Searching the red lining for blood, he tested his chest. It still seemed to hurt, despite the lack of wounds and he pushed off the ground to search through the lifting fog. He could see the blur of a person approaching him and he squinted, wishing for his Sonic, but knowing his pockets sat empty.

"Hello?" He called, listening to his voice echo.

Clara's laugh cut the space and warmed his heart and he felt his shoulders relax as she came into focus a few feet from him. Her smile was as radiant as ever and it held just a pinch of deviousness that raised the hairs on the back of his neck and made him shiver. She wore dressing robes from Gallifrey, layers of whites and beiges that hugged her body and hung comfortably at her sides and he reached automatically to thrust a hand through her hair, his eyes closing at the feel.

"Hello, Doctor," she sang.

"I've missed you," he responded calmly.

She offered the quietest of giggles in response and then reached to take his hand from the side of her head, to thread her fingers through his and bring it to her lips to kiss. "You're in a world of trouble," she lamented.

"Your echo is a lunatic," he teased.

Her head toggled and then she explained, "She's in pain."

His free hand gestured at his chest as his eyes bulged and he pointed out, "I've been shot."

Clara's lips twisted to the left and she offered, "You know what I mean."

Nodding, he bowed his head, "Her son – do you know what happened?"

Her hand slipped away from his and she touched either side of her head, then shook it, looking disappointed in herself as she admitted, "All of the echoes, they're still faded away from my mind like distant memories – it's near impossible to remember; I don't think I'm meant to."

"How will I reach her?" He asked, then pleaded, "How will I help her?"

Head tilting slightly, she smiled, "Shouldn't she help you?"

"Just this once..." he began.

" _Just for the hell of it_ ," she interrupted, "You'll save her?"

They laughed together and then he slowly nodded, telling her honestly, "I owe it to you to try."

"You know why you went looking for an echo – and it wasn't to save her," Clara told him knowingly as he guiltily turned away. "Doctor, you know you have to let go."

His brow rose and he told her pointedly, "Well, you know I have a hard time at that, even in this old bag of bones." Shaking his head, he clarified, because he could see the way her mind was already working a response, "I was ready for an ending, it wasn't that – it just came much too soon for my liking."

Her laugh was loud and he watched her as her body swayed, the fabric at her ankles shifting. He wasn't quite sure where they were – some shared conscious, some higher plane, some delusion of his mind – but he was sure she was an angel. _His_ angel. And her voice was soothing him as he stood there, watching her dab the knuckle of her right forefinger to the edge of her right eye before she smiled up at him warmly. Clara would know what he was thinking and Clara would know what he would need.

Except she couldn't provide it.

"What if I told you I didn't want to let go, not just yet?"

Her smile faded, saddened, and then she inched into him. He opened his arms and accepted her, holding tightly to her as she laid her cheek to his breast. He could feel the pulse of pain there – some echo of what was happening to him in the real world – but he cherished it now. Fingers gripping into her shoulders, forearm muscles flexing to pull her in closer. His eyes closed and he laid his chin to the top of her head. If given the option, he would stay in that space forever, but he knew it was a fleeting moment.

The Doctor knew it wasn't real. Or at least, it wasn't lasting.

 _It was an echo..._

"How could I let you go," he cried softly, eyes burning.

He felt her hands come up to slip underneath his jacket and her fingers curled into the flesh through the shirt at his sides and in that moment he damned himself for not holding on more when she'd been at his side. For not hugging more. For not touching more. For not revealing more. He thought maybe he'd given her enough of him, but now he knew how wrong he'd been. Things could have been so very different, he knew. Somehow, he thought to himself, maybe she'd still be alive – somehow, he laughed in spite of his pain, maybe that would have made _all_ the difference.

"Clara..." he trailed, feeling her grip tighten.

She nodded slowly and told him gently, "I'm always with you, thought you knew that by now."

"I don't want to go back," he managed, voice disappearing as he choked on his tears.

She sighed and replied, "Then hold on just a little longer."


	9. Chapter 9

The only thing Clara could do really was stop the bleeding from the Doctor's wounds – though the chest was harder than the shoulder. She was surprised, for some reason, his blood was red. Through UNIT she'd encountered her fair share of aliens, especially being part of the division that handled the more _interesting_ things. Like the Doctor. She'd read every file on him they would allow her to, but it mainly detailed his enemies and all of the ways they'd tried to kill him. Now she supposed it was strategic: teach her the ways they had failed so that she could envision a way to succeed.

In the end, it was his empathy that could do him in, she knew.

The love he had for his companions.

In all of the records she had been able to read, she learned more about them than him. He picked them up, seemingly at random, and then they travelled with him. They often foiled the plans of his enemies and sometimes they died for him – she used to imagine Stockholm Syndrome had played a part. Looking to the pale chest that shifted up and down slowly beneath her palm, she wondered if that were true.

What if _nothing_ she knew about him were true?

"You're a lucky bastard," she muttered at him. "If you'd been just a man, they'd have killed you dead."

Because the shot had been fired where a single heart might have sat, instead she knew it had missed both, and being a laser, it had cauterized most of the internal wounds. Or at least she _hoped_. Clara just had to expect his _alienness_ helped him heal quickly because she couldn't cut him open to assess the damage, or that he could choose to regenerate... she could only _hope_.

Her own heart thudded oddly in her chest and she raised a bloody set of fingers to touch the hollow of her neck, feeling her pulse quicken for a few minutes before it calmed. Before she went back to doing her best to bandage his wounds with what she'd found on the chopper. He was a lucky bastard indeed, she thought to herself, that the chopper was stocked with a great first aid kit and a few packs, ready for a mission. They had enough food to last a few weeks if they stretched it and she expected it would take him that long to heal.

Grimacing, she ignored the pain of her own gunshot wound, one that cut through her right thigh, and she stood on shaky legs, looking through the old cabin she'd found. It was secluded, she knew – she'd done a quick circle of the terrain before landing just long enough to drag his body onto the porch and remove all of the useable supplies, before flying low enough to stay off radar while she dumped the fuel and then she took it to a nearby lake to sink it in the deepest part.

The hike back was the worst part. Every step she took back to the Doctor sent a shocking sting up through her body, a screaming reminder that she'd been stupid and this was her punishment. Saving the man she'd been trained to kill would probably get her killed in the end, she knew, but she was willing to risk it to get the information she needed to make sure the right people paid for all of those deaths that day.

Because it hadn't just been her son that died to further UNIT's cause.

He moaned and Clara instinctively touched his cheek, seeing his lips flutter up for just a second before he frowned again, head shifting out of her grasp, as thought she were the last thing he wanted. "You just look like a regular old man," she told him. "Like any man," she huffed.

Pulling the first aid kit closer, she plucked up the gauze she'd been holding to his chest and set it aside, replacing it with a clean set before taping it down and reaching up to the couch to pull a throw down over him. He shivered and she sighed, wondering why he didn't simply regenerate. It was in his file, he could regenerate at will if he wanted, and if he were mortally wounded.

"Suppose that's the trick, eh? You're going to be fine, I take it. Just a pain in my arse," she grumbled at him, standing and looking down at his sleeping form. He just looked like any man, she repeated to herself, just lying about after too much supper.

She smirked – it was an interesting observation, one that she'd never put in a field report. She certainly hadn't thought it when she'd first seen him. Then again, when she'd first seen him, she'd been a lot angrier at him than she was now. Now she was just confused. About everything, it seemed. Whether the Doctor was good or bad; whether UNIT was good or bad; whether _she_ was good or bad.

Looking to the man on the ground, she began softly, "Be a pal, Doctor," then she took a breath to ask, "Am I a good woman?"

He moaned in response.

"That settles it, I suppose," she told him, lips pushing together as her hands came up to her hips.

She limped her way into a bathroom and began stripping off her trousers, sitting carefully on the edge of a tub to get a better look at her leg. The laser had cut clear through and between the heat of the shot itself, and the time it'd been since she'd been shot, it had mostly stopped bleeding on its own. Clara was glad for that, but she knew it had to be cleaned and she knew it was going to sting. Dropping the rest of her clothes in a pile, she stepped into the tub and twisted on the water, clenching her teeth as she shifted her right thigh underneath the cool droplets.

Squeezing at it, she grunted and then held her breath, pressing until blood began to flow again, sliding down her leg to twirl towards the drain. The last thing she needed was an infection and she knew – swimming through that lake she'd had to jump from the chopper into, walking through those woods to get back to the cabin – there was a pretty good chance she'd have to battle one. Glancing around, she found a bottle of body wash and she turned it over, pouring the thick honey colored liquid into her hand to begin washing the sweat away, shouting out once when the soap seeped into her wound. There were disinfectants in the first aid kit, and she made her way to it after rinsing off, body dripping wet, covered in only a stiff towel.

The Doctor was still lying on the ground, just as she'd left him, and she fell onto the couch beside him, sifting through the contents to find the tube, some gauze, and tape, and then she limped her way back into the bathroom. Clara dressed her wound and then pulled her clothes back on, moving back slowly to the couch to sit again. She was exhausted and the sun had just set.

Her stomach turned over at the thought of a meal, so she simply laid down, back of her wrist pressed to her forehead while she concentrated on her breathing. She had to concentrate on her breathing because she was beginning to feel her chest cave in. The bit of truth she'd seen; the knowledge that she'd just killed thirteen men and women who were colleagues just hours before.

Knowing UNIT was going to come after her full force.

Her eyes spilled onto her temples and those tears soaked into her hair and she didn't care if the Doctor woke and saw her, she allowed herself to give into the sobs. Her chest shook on each inhale and her body began to shiver and she realized the temperature was dropping outside and she'd done nothing to maintain a decent temperature inside. If she didn't warm herself in some way, she could be dealing with hypothermia, and she urged herself to sit up.

At least to sit up at first.

Her mind went over therapy sessions she'd had to go through after Charlie's passing. After she'd taken a razor to both of her wrists and called her mother in the middle of the night with a shaky, " _Mum, I've made a mistake_..."

She could still hear the way her own voice had been saturated with her tears, and she could still see the look on her mother's face when she'd entered her flat only ten minutes later and had screamed, " _My God, Clara, what have you done_?"

Clara had been sitting on her couch, each of her wrists wrapped tightly with the torn sleeves of her uniform, her vision blurred, her mind empty. She wanted the world to stop then, but she didn't want it to end. Not just yet – not before she could get revenge, she'd told herself that night. Her life had been destroyed, but there was one man she could still punish for that. The one man who now seemed to hold all of the answers to the one question that had plagued her for years: _Why her_?

Surveying the room, Clara spotted the fireplace easily, and then looking to the Doctor's pale face. She frowned, concerned about the stillness of it – without pain, it would seem, but also seemingly without dreams. Looking away, she chalked it up to him being an alien, and then she shivered, reminded of the cold seeping in under the doors and in through the windows. It occurred to her that she really should have covered them, but she didn't have the energy.

There was barely enough left in her to walk outside and around the cabin to the wood pile, lugging several logs in on a few trips and then rummaging through the closets and drawers for newspaper for kindling and a pack of matches to get a flame going. She slumped in front of the small fire, poking at it with a metal rod, and then she let it clatter to the ground, feeling the exhaustion creeping into her body. The nagging pains that yelled at her to lay down and rest.

She turned to look at the Doctor and she pursed her lips, seeing him trembling underneath the thick throw that covered him. Clara pushed up on her knees and she grabbed at him, dragging him closer to the fire that was now picking up, watching the way the flames flashed golden on his skin. There was something serene about it, she thought with a smirk, or maybe she was just delirious. The thought made her chuckle.

"You're making me mad," Clara told the Doctor.

His body shivered in response.

Taking a long breath, she climbed carefully over him, her leg now screaming at her to stop, and she sat next to him for a while, until the sun had long set and the hooting of owls startled her out of a daze. She needed to sleep, but she was too tired to move. Looking to the man at her side, she took a long breath and then realized he was still shivering in spite of the fire that had warmed the room. Clara carefully lifted the blanket at his left and she shifted to lay next to him, resting her head against his shoulder before adjusting to press her ear to his chest, listening to the faint double beat of his two hearts.

She smiled then, left hand coming up to land against his stomach, feeling his tremors slowly subsiding, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on the gentle and steady beats. Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum, four overlapping beats that were strange, but entirely familiar in a way she couldn't explain, and as she drifted, she found herself clinging to him, as though he were someone she thought she'd lost. Clara didn't understand, but in that moment she didn't question it, because in that moment, all of her fears and all of her worries and all of her anger subsided, and she calmly slept.


	10. Chapter 10

General Wallace sat at the head of a table in a darkened room watching the surveillance footage from the rooftop with a scowl on his face. He watched the Doctor get shot twice and he watched as the petite woman rushed to his aid, getting him into the chopper before she was shot herself. A leg wound, he grumbled, she'd get over that quick enough. He knew the chopper had been designated for a two week mission for four men – giving them supplies for at least a month... enough time to heal.

Enough time to plan.

And he knew she would be planning. Wallace had seen the files she'd managed to hack her way into, frustrated they'd given her the training that allowed her to hack them in the first place. He'd need to make a note about that, about keeping better tabs on people they trained in computers. Their keystrokes needed to be monitored, it was the only way to know who was up to what – and he knew it went against the general notion that UNIT soldiers were loyal to UNIT.

He froze the film being projected onto the wall on the look of determined hatred on Captain Palmer's face as she lifted the chopper from the roof, just before she took it out of their radar's scope. She'd know exactly how to disarm the tracking features, even where to shoot to destroy it completely. They'd need to keep better tabs on who they trained to fly, he sighed. They needed to keep better tabs on everyone, he surmised. The truth of it was they'd trained Clara well enough to take out the Doctor, but they'd never thought about the fact that they'd trained her well enough to take over UNIT.

If she gained enough followers, he knew, she very well could.

If she somehow got the information she'd seen out?

He groaned and someone else at the table cleared their throat. No one willing to say it aloud because no one wanted to accept it. In their desire to make her the perfect killer, she'd gone through weapons training on everything imaginable, flight training on at least four types of aircraft, combat training, computer training, medical training, espionage training, among other things. Combined with a calculated intellect and a desperate need to avenge one three year old little boy – and now with the inevitable help of the Doctor, because of exactly _who_ she was – Captain Clarice Oswald Palmer was currently the biggest threat to UNIT.

In a cabin a few hundred miles away though, Clara's first instinct that morning had been as far from _threatening_ as possible. In her half-conscious state, she'd begun to cuddle into the body beside her, but when the body cuddled back, she woke with a start and shifted quickly away, back slamming into the couch, leg burning with pain as her wound re-opened. Clara stared at the sleeping man and she watched the small smirk that curled his lips up ever so slightly. She took a breath of the cold smoky air and immediately looked to the fire that had gone out. The ashes were white and she knew it'd been a while because as soon as she got over the shock of the Doctor's arm hugging her to him, she could feel the frigid air rattle her body.

"Good morning," he stated quietly, voice thick with sleep.

"You're _awake_ ," was all she managed to respond.

"Glad you're still as _sharp_ as ever," he quipped.

"Glad you're not _dead_ ," she muttered back.

One of his eyes opened in a squint and his head turned towards her. Then he drawled matter-of-factly with a quick lifting of one finger to point, "You're freezing – better get that fire started back up."

Clara stared at him, watched that one eye close again as he remained comfortably on his back, as though he were just laying about on a Sunday afternoon. She tried to tell herself that he had to be in a world of pain with that wound through his chest and the other at his shoulder, but some part of her wanted to kick him when she stood, grimacing against her own pain, just to remind him. She clenched her teeth and went to clean the fireplace to start anew, then moved to the kitchen space to start looking through cupboards. There was no sense in using their supplies if there was something in the cabin to use.

Though she was surprised to find it so fully stocked.

It gave her a sinking feeling, a painful understanding she tried not to think about surfacing in a barrage of memories as she pulled a box of instant oatmeal down and searched for a kettle to heat water on the gas stove. As she worked, she continued to glance back at the Doctor, still lying on the floor. Of course he would be, she told herself, he's injured. She made too much in one bowl and took it towards him, sitting on the ground at his side with a grunt that earned her another opening of one eye – to look her over before he opened both and watched her curiously.

"Do you need a sedative?" She questioned, before telling him bluntly, "There are two in the kit, as well as a few shots for the pain – I gave you one last night, but the effects should have worn out by now so I know you're feeling that," she gestured at his chest.

"To be honest," he sighed, "The ego's more damaged than the body."

Clara snorted.

"You should take one though," he supplied. "For the leg."

"I'm fine," she shot.

His eyes widened and he looked to the roof, mouthing, "Fine."

"What?" Clara challenged.

Not turning his head to look at her, the Doctor supplied, "You cried out in your sleep from the pain, stupidly lying on your injured leg to try and keep me warm. There's no harm in admitting it's sore – no damage done in using the medication on yourself."

Swiping a spoon through the oatmeal, she explained, "Your wounds are the priority," and before he could argue, she swung the spoon into his open mouth, catching him by surprise and watching those bushy eyebrows drop in frustration.

"It's hot," he complained.

She ate a bite and shrugged, "You have a delicate palette."

The Doctor remained silent as she continued to feed him, taking turns to feed herself as well, and she placated his complaint by blowing gently on his. Not condescendingly, but trying to show genuine concern. They'd gotten off to a bad enough start, she knew – what with her shooting him with a stun gun and delivering him to UNIT. Though he'd gotten his payback, putting her in their ICU. Clara scraped the bottom of the bowl and she bit her lip as she spooned it into his mouth, chewing on a question she knew he could see.

He mulled the oatmeal over a moment and then shot, "Go on."

Clara let the spoon drop into the empty bowl and she eyed him, taking one quick breath, and then a slow second, before finally stating, "You transferred your pain to me – _how_?"

"I'm an _alien_ ," he teased. She imagined if he were mobile, he would have held his hands up to wiggle his long thin fingers in her direction ominously, though the mischievous tone gave him away – he wasn't threatening to her in the slightest.

Managing a small laugh, one, she noted, that brought a twinge of color to his cheeks, she shrugged, "But honestly, it's not something that's in your file."

"You've not read all my files," he suggested. And she knew it wasn't some notion off the top of his head – it was something he was sure of; it was something she was sure of as well. Because he'd been made out to be a ruthless killer, but he'd yet to strike her as such.

On a nod, Clara admitted, "Suppose I haven't, no." Then she bowed her head, "There was a lot kept from me, I know that now." She looked to him, "But _how_?"

"What do you really want to ask, Clara?" He asked, inquisitively.

Her hesitation upset her, it wasn't her intention to come off scared in the least by him, or by the ideas she had forming in her head, so she met his eyes and boldly asked, "How are we connected, you and I?"

"You have the face of a former companion," he allowed.

She sighed her disappointment.

"That answer doesn't satisfy you?" He questioned.

Setting the bowl down, Clara shifted to lean her side into the couch and she shook her head, telling him bluntly, "I know I look like a past companion, but that doesn't explain it."

He laughed, "Oh Clara, it isn't just that you look like her," his hand reached slowly and his knuckles brushed her thigh before he told the air above him, "You literally wear her face, you take her name, you breathe her breaths."

Clara huffed a laugh at his poetic stupidity, immediately asking, "How's that possible?"

The Doctor smiled and he looked to her, to the terrified expression widening her eyes, and he asked, "They never showed you her file, did they – just said you bore a resemblance."

Not wanting to answer – not wanting to admit he was right – she turned away. She thought back to the building in which she'd captured him. Clara remembered the look in his eyes when he'd seen her. Just a little bit of fear tinting the elation on his face. As though he'd found the Holy Grail. She softly asked, "Is that why you walked so willingly into a trap? On the hopes you'd see her face again?"

"Have you ever been in a dessert, Clara?" The Doctor asked her softly, his eyes finding the ceiling as a small grin played on his face – as though lost in some memory that soothed him.

"I don't understand..." she began.

He looked to her, "Have you ever thirsted so badly your tongue could taste the sand in the air on every dried up bud of that muscle in your mouth?" His mouth closed a moment, savoring that thought, and she waited, breathing slowed as she watched him contemplate his words before speaking again. "Have you ever looked to a wavy horizon and seen an ocean you craved to drink, in spite of the salt – for the death it would bring you if it were real would be worth that one last chance at moisture?"

She watched the way his eyes watered over, the way those tears sat obediently at the edges of his lids, refusing to trail over his skin. Clara felt her heart skip and slowly, she nodded, watched him blink to offer permission to those droplets to fall and when he opened his eyes again, it shot a shiver through her body and she didn't need him to answer her original question – she understood that somehow, _somehow_ , him and this past companion had been connected in a way that transcended time and space. _Somehow_ that bond had been replicated within her.

Fingertips trailing lightly at her knee, he told her softly, "You're the mirage."

And then he passed out.


	11. Chapter 11

"Doctor?" She questioned, voice wavering. Clara lifted herself to her knees, immediately grimacing and shouting out against the pain of her own wound, but she swallowed it, bending to listen to his heartbeats. They were as steady as ever and she slipped back, looking down at him in confusion.

Perhaps it was how they healed, she told herself. She doubted everything she knew about Gallifreyans now, even though it wasn't too much to begin with. For a moment she weighed giving him the shot of pain killer in their stash, wondered whether he'd be thankful or upset, and then she decided against it – he would argue with her when she woke that it was a waste, that he'd declined it for a reason.

Clara lifted herself to stand and then she collapsed into the couch with a wheeze. It was the only sound she would let escape because she wanted to scream. Her leg burned with pain and she looked to the Doctor as she tried to regain control of her breathing – to the calm way he slept – and she noted to ask him if Gallifreyans felt pain in a different way.

Taking a few long breaths, she braced herself and then stood, limping back towards the bathroom to strip herself of the trousers that were now crusted and smelly with her blood and sweat. She'd need new clothes and, she considered with a glance back to the hallway, the Doctor would too. Then the thought she'd had before, looking in on a fully stocked kitchen, returned and she took a breath as she considered it now.

People went into the woods – they took their families and pets and all of their belongings – to offer one last sense of hope and peace. And then they waited until the right moment... the fathers would shoot their wives on a long walk at night to "talk", they'd return to shoot their children as they slept; the mothers poisoned dinners and then hoped they'd die first to avoid seeing their loved ones suffer. They weren't usually found for weeks, sometimes, Clara knew, they were never found. The families they left behind knew the truth of it and they chose not to search.

They chose to continue _living_.

War did _strange_ things, she knew.

 _How could she forget_?

The question came with a palm to her chest, rubbing at the scar from a bullet wound as she carefully turned and made her way into the bedroom, part of her terrified she would find remains, old and mummified, smell too faint to get past the rustic smell that permeated the rest of the cabin. Instead she found a closet in which hung blouses and shirts, a few sets of slacks, as well as a handful of dresses. There were a few suitcases on the floor, each with clothes, some undergarments she picked up to try against herself knowing there would probably be a sewing machine of some sort hidden away. At the very least, the packs that had been in the chopper had some needle and a spool of black thread.

"We'll make due," she muttered as she pulled out a long sleeved pale yellow dress, dotted with mint leaves, knowing it would be easiest to check on her own wound, and set it on the bed, stripping the shirt she wore over her head and turning to see a long mirror in a corner.

Clara concentrated on the bloodied gauze taped to her leg, but she couldn't help see the other wounds. The ones sustained in battle, the ones she'd inflicted on herself, and the ones that reddened her eyes just before she moved to cover the mirror with a blanket from the edge of the bed. She stood in front of the mirror a moment, taking a few long breaths with her eyes closed to the world, feeling her heartbeat thudding as her body warmed in spite of the lack of clothes.

"Just breathe, Clara," she ordered.

Fingers slowly releasing the edges of the mirror, she turned back and plucked the dress up, slipping it over herself and going back to the closet for a belt. The woman had been a size larger than herself, possibly a bit taller, but it fit well enough. She found a white cardigan and pulled it on, rubbing at her arms before going back to the bathroom to change her gauze, frowning at the color of the skin around her wound. An angry red she chose not to worry about as she went back to find her boots.

More firewood, she tasked herself. Then she rummaged through the room to find a journal tucked in a drawer, and a pen, taking them into the kitchen to begin taking stock of their supplies. The fridge stunk of rotten milk and meat and she tossed most of the contents into a trash bag, going outside to find a shovel to bury the waste – deep enough that it wouldn't attract animals. The last thing they needed was some wild animal storming into the cabin while they slept.

It was nearing nightfall when the Doctor opened his eyes again, sitting up sharply and releasing a pained guffaw that startled her and had her raising a pistol from the kitchen counter to rush back in towards him, wary of the windows and doors. She looked to him in shock and shouted, "What are you doing, you'll tear your stitching!"

"You've stitched me?" He shrieked back.

For some reason, the wild look in his eyes made her laugh. The gun in her right hand lowered as she brought her left hand up to her mouth, body twisting slightly until she winced from the pain, and then she looked back at him. He'd softened and, she noticed, he was looking at her with a sort of... she tried to find the right word for the expression now painting his features. It was something like admiration, but not so simple. It was _bigger_ than that, she knew.

"Stop looking at me like that," she shot.

He turned away because he realized it too.

 _There in her dress and that cardigan she looked just like her._

It was _love_.

"You really should lie down," Clara explained, walking towards him slowly and sitting on the couch at his side, setting the gun down fully knowledgeable of the fact that it was now within his reaching distance. Knowing full well she was choosing to trust him just enough to leave it unattended.

The Doctor looked to his bare chest and he touched the gauze, his right arm twisting behind him to feel for the gauze at his back and then he sighed, "Feels like I've been primed for a shish kabob."

She smiled, "Don't worry, Doctor, I don't plan on eating you until the food supplies warrant it."

He frowned, "Then I'll warn you, I'm a tough meat to swallow."

Clara went red and she watched his face freeze, as though he'd understood the inadvertent innuendo, and she stood, taking a few slow steps away to tell him, "Suppose you can change your own gauze if you can sit upright, and _a shirt_. I found you a shirt, though I fear it might be a touch too large for you."

Eyes closing tightly, the Doctor lifted his left hand to his face, grimacing, and then he took a long breath and glanced back down at himself, stripping the gauze off quickly with a hiss before looking to the thick black thread holding his skin together. It hadn't torn, as she'd thought, but it was wet with new blood. The same as his shoulder. He grabbed at a towel that sat on the edge of the couch, dabbing at each wound lightly, and then reaching to drag a first aid kit that sat near his feet closer to him.

He stopped, taking a few long breaths because it ached, even though he wouldn't admit it, and then he worked to smear each wound with new antibacterial gel before hastily taping new gauze, listening for Clara's return. It was hesitant, he could hear her footsteps halt at the end of the hallway, beside the open kitchen space, and he frowned, waiting just a moment before speaking.

"I apologize," he uttered, "It wasn't my intention to offend you."

"I wasn't offended," she snapped.

He raised his eyes to meet hers, searching for the lie and finding only sadness, and he nodded, "I need help with my back – if you wouldn't mind."

Her head shook lightly and he swallowed roughly as she approached, kneeling behind him and sliding the kit to herself, and he could feel her eyes looking over him, a thousand questions probably racing through her mind that she didn't chance to reveal. And then her cool hands worked carefully to peel away at the bandage. It stood his hairs on end and sent a chill up into his skull that closed his eyes on reflex. Behind it all, she was still Clara, he knew, deep down.

"You're a soldier," he allowed, "And yet you have a mother's hands."

"I'm a mother first," she argued, then she sighed to say, "The soldiering was a means to an end."

He nodded. Then he spoke quietly, asking, "How did he die?"

Her hands paused and he could feel her watching him then, curious to know why he wanted to know, not quite understanding that to him she was an extension of a woman he cared deeply about... and so this child he'd never met, it pained him that she'd lost him. Clara dabbed the gel to his wounds and she took a breath, one she held and he thought she might not speak again, but then she released the air against his shoulders and he felt her slump back, picking up new gauze, and her lips parted again to explain.

"There were a series of bombings – all targeting children, schools; all on the same day," her voice wavered slightly, but she continued, "Charlie was in one of two daycares that were hit. He died... he _succumbed_ to internal bleeding after three days."

"I'm sorry," was all the Doctor said. He didn't know if there was anything else he could say.

He considered telling her about Susan, about Susan's mother and the Time War, but he knew Clara didn't need someone to tell her what she already knew – war was brutal and unkind and took innocent lives for no reason. Though he wasn't sure what she needed to hear, he was sure now she was intent on healing him only for his help because of what she'd read in his files. What they'd given her of his files. Clara saw him as a sort of monster that could help her take revenge on UNIT and he bowed his head, hearing her small noise of confusion behind him.

"What is it?" She questioned.

"Why are you doing this?" He shot. "Why did you rescue me? Why bring me here to hide me? I'm not sure I understand what you want from me, Clara?"

Pressing the last piece of tape into place, she stood and moved to the couch and he could see her favor her right leg, jaw clenching tightly as she sat. Grabbing at something beside her, she reached to hand it to him and he took the dark shirt, glancing at it in confusion before putting it on with some effort. His body ached, his wounds screamed, and his hearts broke, looking to the woman trying to find the answer amongst the chaos in her head.

Her hands fiddled with one another in her lap and he smiled ever so slightly. It was what he'd wanted, wasn't it, he asked himself, to see those little signs of Clara in one of her echoes – but he certainly hadn't wished it to be this way. Not on the run; not with that hatred in her heart.

"I've been told, since my son's death, that you were responsible," she began lowly. "I had been asked before to bring you to justice and I refused, but after Charlie..." she raised her eyes to him, "I wanted you dead and UNIT had the information I needed – at least I thought they did." With a shrug, she told him, "They gave me files and then they gave me training. I asked to learn everything; I pushed myself to learn _everything_ because I thought that's what I was getting."

"You want me to fill in the blanks."

"I want you to tell me why they killed my son," she shouted.

He could see her holding back tears and he exhaled roughly, telling her honestly, "To light a fire under you to kill me."

Clara shook her head, eyes narrowing, and she spat, "My son died to turn me into an assassin?"

"Yes," he answered simply. Then he added sadly, "And it worked."

The words struck her. He watched them punch her in the chest; watched the air deflate from her as her skin went even greyer than it'd been, and she nodded slowly, bottom lip trembling. Clara stared at the fire in front of her and he watched the blaze sparkle in her dulled eyes. And then she growled, "They wanted a killer, they'll have a killer."

"And what am I then?" The Doctor questioned, a twinge of fright stirring his hearts.

She turned to look at him, and told him blankly, "A means to an end."


	12. Chapter 12

The Doctor accepted her words with a rough swallow and a nod and he watched as she went back to looking at the flames, staring for so long he thought she might have fallen asleep, but when he shifted, she jerked in his direction, hand falling atop the gun that had remained, all of that time, on the couch. She moved only when she decided she was hungry and she announced that she was going to make dinner in a soft tone, void of emotions, which turned his stomach.

It was when she returned that he finally asked, "What do you plan to do?"

And it was after they'd both eaten their bowls of lentils and rice that she even looked in his direction. For a moment he considered the avoidance a sign of guilt – maybe she didn't like the idea of using him, even though he knew not much would change her mind – but then she boldly asked, "What do you know about UNIT?"

He coughed, head toggling, and admitted, "Quite a bit."

She nodded, her indication for him to continue speak.

With a shake of his head, he told her, "Clara, it doesn't really matter, what I know..."

"I'll decide that for myself," she interrupted.

They stared into one another and he saw her eyelids were drooping. He knew the infection in her leg – the one she was actively ignoring – was starting to affect her, and he sighed because he knew once she fell asleep, all of her plans were going to take a backseat to an ailment he wasn't sure they were prepared to handle. Hopefully, he considered, he could use that to his advantage, turn the gears in her head even slightly. Take revenge, yes, he thought to himself, but soften the murderous look in her eyes. The one that had him wondering how large of a bomb she was constructing in her mind during all that time lost to the flames.

Clearing his throat, he told her everything he knew. Of course, what he knew had more to do with their dealings in the past than their current work. He was still a little confused about the war – he couldn't recall this war and it bothered him almost as much as the frustrated look Clara was giving him. Because Clara didn't care about someone's cat and Clara didn't care about kids and grandkids and an old car and his questions about pension. Clara wanted information to hurt them and the Doctor wasn't providing it.

"You're useless," she finally spat at him, dropping back into the couch.

He rolled his eyes, watching hers drop shut before opening again quickly, widely, fighting off the need to rest, and he gestured, "Why don't you sleep – I'll be fine here by myself."

She smiled, scornfully prompting, "Who'll keep the fire going so we don't freeze to death overnight?"

The Doctor scratched lightly at the back of his head and offered, "To be honest, the cold isn't bothering me too much." He gestured, "Which is why you should get sleep. There's a big bed back there, isn't there? Nicely layered with downs." He smiled, "Go on."

"What are you doing?" Clara asked him curiously, a small suspicious smile shifting the corners of her lips as she brought her fingers together in her lap, picking at them as she waited for his answer.

With a sigh, he allowed, "I'm not being devious."

Head shaking, Clara replied quickly, "Oh no, never. The Doctor, being _devious_."

And the way she'd said those words – the way she sounded so very much like his Clara – bent his body slightly in pain. So much so that she sat up, quickly asking him if he were alright. Glancing back up at her, he admitted, "You sounded like her then."

"Who?"

"My Clara," he admitted, his tears as immediate as his smile. "Always a joke in her tone – always that playful look in her eyes." His lips dropped slowly as he looked away, the memory of that tiny grin she'd held onto, even after death, assaulting his mind. He looked up at her, "It's funny how you can look so much like her and be so different. I guess it was a mistake, coming here."

"Did you love her?" Clara asked hesitantly.

The Doctor had denied himself the verbal admission before, but now it seemed pointless and he simply uttered, "With every bit of both of my hearts."

The words seemed to sadden her, and he looked to his hands, lying limp in his lap, because he couldn't bear to see that sadness in her eyes again. This Clara held onto too much sadness; she'd lived through too much. And then she touched his shoulder, a warm and gentle touch that came with a light squeeze, and when he looked up, she smiled down at him sympathetically. Because she knew what it was to lose the ones you loved.

"You never told her," she sighed before adding, "Did you."

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Of everything I've ever been through, telling someone that I loved them has always been the scariest. It's not something you can take back, or explain." He winced as he stated, "I tend to avoid it at all costs."

"She died not knowing?" Clara said then, and her smile faded. There was an accusation in her eyes that offended the Doctor and he felt a cold chill rattle up his spine as he watched that judgment of him forming on her face. As though not telling Clara how he felt would have been his worse offense.

With a laugh, he assured, "She knew."

Clara laughed back, condescendingly, and she questioned angrily, "How would she have known?"

"Because I would have _died_ for her," he quickly shot. "I would have done anything for her, gone to hell and back for her..." he trailed, thinking on that dark day that seemed so long ago. He shrugged and he stated, "I would have done anything for her as she would have me and they're _just_ words. _Anyone_ could say them. I could say them and it would mean _nothing_."

"Don't get defensive," she argued mutedly, shrinking away momentarily.

"I love you," he told her, speaking over her.

She shook her head, "Don't..."

"I love you," he repeated louder.

"Don't do that," Clara spat.

"Don't do what? Tell you that I love you?"

She slapped him, roughly, and he recoiled, hand coming up to cool the sting of her palm and he watched her stand – watched her swallow a small cry of pain to put her full weight on her leg – and she shouted, "Don't reduce them to just _words_. Don't say them without meaning because _words mean_ _everything_. Two small words that would mean _nothing_ to a man like you _shattered my life_ so don't you pretend those words of yours hold no meaning and don't pretend they'd held no meaning to her because they would have." She nodded and he watched while unexpected tears rolled over her cheeks as she stated firmly, "They would have meant the world to her."

The fire crackled behind them as they continued to stare into one another, a sort of challenge – one he knew he'd already lost. He knew she wanted him to respond, but he had nothing left in him to say. She was right. She also didn't understand everything him and his Clara had been through. The emotions and the memories that those three words brought. This Clara didn't know Danny Pink and how he'd made those words mean so much that the Doctor _had_ reduced them to nothing.

Because he'd never hear his Clara say them to _him_.

She'd promised.

Hand slipping back into his lap, his head bobbed slowly in resignation and he uttered, "I'm sorry."

And he watched the confusion creep onto her face because she'd expected a fight, she was prepared for a fight and he'd taken the wind out of it. He'd given her another set of words he rarely spoke in reference to his own actions as opposed to the universe's; ones that also carried a heavy meaning, though he was sure she'd heard them enough that she'd gone deaf to them. Until that moment. Because the Doctor had meant them, and he nodded to assure her of that fact, lest she doubt.

"You're right," he managed. He smiled, "I was stubborn and afraid."

Clara stood motionless, watching his shoulders slump before he winced at his injuries. Then she chanced to ask, "Were you afraid she would reject you?"

He smiled up at her and gestured with his good arm, "Look at me." Laughing, he offered, "You don't know much about me, but I suppose even if you did, I doubt you'd put up with me for much longer than you had to."

Lips turning up, she asked, "How long had she travelled with you, before her death?"

"That's a story," he responded on a quiet laugh.

Clara slowly returned to the couch, spreading the dress over her legs and shifting the gun at her side, one she thought the Doctor had an interest in, but he was concerned about the redness of the skin around the bandage he'd seen on her thigh. The way she tried to hide it from him, knowing he would know. She nodded slowly and then landed her hands to her knees to tell him, "I'm listening."

"It speaks to why you look like her," he smiled, "Why there are so many little things about you that remind me of her." Her eyes widened just a little and he nodded, "What UNIT probably never got around to telling you is that you're essentially a part of her."

With a laugh, she repeated, "A _part_ of her," then she shook her head, "How is that even _possible_?"

"That's the very thing," he told her, fingertip tapping the knuckles on her right knee, a move that earned him the uptick of the right corner of her mouth. "It should be _impossible_."

Shrugging, she asked, "Then how?"

"Because Clara was impossible. She was my impossible girl." He smiled and slowly began to tell her about Clara. About the Oswin Oswald he met in a Dalek Asylum who died saving him and the Clara Oswn Oswald he met in Victorian London he fancied maybe a bit too much and the Clara Oswald who created them all, the Clara Oswald he didn't merely fancy – the Clara Oswald he'd _loved_.

The one he'd given up for her own good and then, _miraculously_ , regained.

He hadn't realized how deprived he'd been of her in the past short few days. Hadn't realized that his mind had longed to relive those moments just as his hearts craved the way the thought of her made them pump. The Doctor spoke of Clara as though speaking of her were the breaths necessary to continue and as he did, he watched _this_ Clara's fascination with the tale she'd been longing to hear herself. One piece of the puzzle UNIT had failed to give her that he knew was necessary.

The longer he spoke, the more alive he felt and the more she listened, the more enraptured she became. He wondered if he were inadvertently transferring his emotional state, for everything he felt, he saw reflected in her. The pale of her skin was warming, her cheeks taking on an odd rosy glow and as he finished his words, not daring to speak of her death, he found himself staring deeply into her eyes, because they looked like her eyes again.

They sparkled with a wonder he hadn't realized he was missing.

Pointing a finger to her, he narrowed his eyes and allowed, "I have a theory. A theory that just before each of you passes and returns to her back in my time stream – _impossibly_ making a journey through time and space – that you remember _all_ of you. For just _one fleeting instance_ , you remember _all_ of Clara Oswald. Every last one of you, for one _impossible_ moment in time, is completely _Clara Oswald_. _My_ Clara Oswald."

Blinking, she sent tears she hadn't realized had been balanced precariously on her eyelids tumbling over her cheeks and she wiped at them almost angrily, as though they'd defied her, asking him gently, "Is that _your_ journey now? To see every last one of us die?"

Scoffing, he tilted his head and replied, "No, Clara, I just wanted to see at least one of you _live_." Reaching up with the slightest groan, he ignored the aches in his chest to slide a knuckle softly over her cheek, surprised that she allowed it. She giggled then, nervously in spite of herself as she bowed bashfully and he damned himself because he realized just how easily he could fall in love with all of them.

How could he not?

They were _her_.


	13. Chapter 13

It wasn't long after Clara limped her way outside to bring in more firewood – carefully settling a few more logs to brighten the flames in their fireplace – that the Doctor found himself looking to her sleeping form on the couch. He could see the nightmare just behind her eyes and he was tempted to truly see it. His hand gripped at his side, but he refrained because it was an invasion, one he knew would widen the canyon between them and he had hoped that somehow he'd narrowed it just a little bit in entrusting her with his feelings towards his Clara.

He called her name and she whimpered and he sat up, frowning at the sweat now dotting her face. Her breathing was laboured and he reached over carefully to check the pulse at her neck, looking to the floor because her skin was warm with the first touch of a fever. The infection in her leg, he knew, was spreading quickly, and they needed medicine they didn't quite have. They needed a Tardis he didn't know the location of.

"At the very least," he whispered, "My Sonic."

She mumbled in her sleep and he tried to listen, but it was nonsense. Inching up with a hiss and a wince, he moved to his knees, hand coming up to brush the long bangs from her face, tucking them behind her ear and testing her temperature again with a long sigh. He then shifted down and moved the fabric off her leg, letting it settle lightly at her hip as he began to remove the bandages she'd wrapped around the wound, though he could already see the scarlet at both sides.

Giving the entry wound a squeeze, he grimaced against her shout and then moved to the first aid kit, rummaging through it and finding one of the shots of sedatives and he inched back up, turning to find her peering up at him. She hadn't moved to stop him, had simply looked at him to question him and he gestured to her leg, but her eyes didn't follow – they remained on him. And then he saw her gun, pointed at him.

"Clara..." he began softly, "You know this leg is infected, why haven't you given yourself anything for it?"

She swallowed roughly and he watched the gun lower, her arm laying weakly against the couch as she blinked at tears, "Because there's only one bottle of antibiotics in that kit – enough for one full week's treatment."

He pressed his palm to his face, dragging it over as his mouth fell open, and then he spoke his realization aloud, so she knew he understood, "You didn't tell me because you were saving it in case I needed it."

"You were shot through the chest," she told him quietly. "I thought I could get by – but an infection in your chest would spread immediately and stop your hearts."

"Calculated risk," he offered, "Maybe the leg heals, or at least is tolerable, while I develop an infection that requires the antibiotics you were withholding." He shook his head and then stripped her of the gun easily, tossing it aside, "Don't calculate my risks for me _ever_ again – _do you understand_ , Clara." He growled in frustration as he moved back to her thigh.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her nod weakly. Then she stated, "You really have no intention of hurting me, do you."

Hand reaching to grip the couch, he turned and he understood, she'd grown distrustful of everyone and he knew – he _absolutely_ knew – there were more tragedies in her life than the loss of her son. Ones he imagined he'd have a hard time getting her to open up about. He wondered about her parents then; he wondered about her son's father... she'd yet to mention him. Had she been married? Captain _Palmer_ , he considered, but he knew just because he'd met several incarnations of Clara that retained the last name Oswald, it was impossible that they all could.

Or that they would all even be _named_ Clara.

"No," he told her with a simple shake of his head, "I've never held those intentions towards you."

She smiled then, playfully managing, " _Just_ me, or all of me."

His chuckle was automatic as he told her, "All of you."

"I would have killed you," she admitted.

The Doctor's lips settled into a grim frown as he replied, "I know."

Avoiding the sad stare she offered in response, he tried to shift out of the light, looking to her wound and then reaching to give the back of her thigh a squeeze as she sucked in a breath. The muscles underneath his hands tightened and he gave her a soothing pat, looking to her and feeling that cold apprehension in his chest at the way she had her eyes shut tightly and her skin had gone grey. The infection had taken hold quickly, he knew, and she should have started treating it the day before.

"You need to start taking the antibiotics," he warned.

She shook her head against the couch cushion, tears sparkling in her eyes.

"Clara, the infection's already set in; we can't simply wish it away," he grumbled at her angrily.

"No," she spat, "It's not that bad."

He clamped his right hand around the space between the entry wound and her knee and he squeezed and she couldn't hold the scream in, but he knew she'd cut it short. Then he lifted a needle that held a sedative he knew would put her out for at least twelve hours, possibly longer as she was human, and before she could protest, he lifted the dress to inject her buttocks. Her arm shot out wildly to slap it away, but it was too late.

"Why did you waste that?" Clara cried as she tried to slip out of his grasp, rolling and dropping with a thud and a grunt to the floor at his side.

The Doctor slowly moved back, careful of his own injuries, and he watched her pick up the needle from where it had fallen to the ground, examining it as though he might have played a trick. She shook her head and he sighed, because it would take effect soon and he knew he'd have a hell of a time getting her back onto the couch. She groaned in frustration and then collapsed, cheek crashing into the hardwood floor with enough force to leave a bruise and he rubbed at his head, looking over the woman lying unconscious.

On a sigh, he told her, "I'm so very sorry, Clara."

What he didn't understand – because she didn't trust many people with her truths – was that she was afraid of sedatives. Her nightmares were memories that sedatives trapped her inside of. As he rolled her onto her back and picked her up with a shout of pain from his chest stitching tearing, Clara dreamt of a flat she hadn't seen in years.

It was always the happiness she remembered first. The dinners and lazy Sundays and how they talked about a future. Maybe a life in the countryside, near enough to a small town where she could teach and he could find any old job.

" _Tom, you can't just take any old job, it should be something you enjoy too_!"

They were lying in bed, their legs a tangled mess underneath an ocean of sheets, his fingertips making a trail up her bare arm as she laughed at him, looking over that gentle smile nestled in that strong jaw, and his disheveled dark hair, poking up and out in every direction. He sighed and told her firmly, " _Clara, as long as I'm with you, I'm ok_."

Pushing her lips together, she smiled, and saluted, " _We'd have to quit, you know_."

" _You hate the military anyways_ ," he reminded.

On a shrug, she replied, " _I hate the guns_."

He laughed, light eyes disappearing into slits, " _Says the marksman_."

Clara shifted forward and kissed him then, and she released a laugh that echoed through her mind as he rolled her onto her back, nudging her legs aside to bury himself inside of her. The laughter died away and her thoughts went dark. Thunderous claps of lightning accompanied the tapping of rain on the window as she jerked awake in bed, looking around for him.

There had been new bombings and new attacks, a new surge of soldiers. She'd killed so many young men and women; held back tears over lifeless bodies while others in her platoon cheered and clapped her on the back. Clara hadn't understood the darkness of war until then. She thought maybe her father's death would have done it, but it'd only inspired her to join in. To seek some sort of... she hadn't called it _revenge_ then; it never felt like revenge.

She wanted _peace_.

Her mum and gran and tea and cakes in the yard.

A _simpler_ life.

Everything about war was death though, and in one year, between her and Tom, they'd taken the lives of enough people for Clara to cry to him one night, " _They were all children once; they would have filled a school_."

In the first months of the resurgence, he'd held her to him each night they weren't on mission and they'd fantasized about leaving. The war was the worst in Europe and Asia – they could leave to the Americas. They could hear about the war instead of wash the blood from their uniforms at the end of each night. They could stop fighting.

But he'd grown colder over time. She'd seen the light in his green eyes go out; could remember the moment she'd looked into them in the shower one evening and thought to herself – this is not _my_ Tom. He continued to get recruitment calls from UNIT and Tom said they had a spot for her, he teased it was her they really wanted. She could help end the war with the death of one man.

" _Who's the Doctor_?" Clara asked him before shaking her head, " _I don't know, Tom, I want to get out, not get further entrenched in all of this madness_."

" _Clara, they say you could end it_ ," he argued in frustration.

" _How does the death of one person end a war_?" Clara demanded

He slammed a large fist to the table and walked away.

Clara should have left, but instead she followed him into the room, hands reaching up to roam over his tense shoulders, fingertips gripping and searching, lips pressing gentle kisses at his spine. He was her husband; she couldn't just pack up her bags and leave at the first signs of trouble. Of course, she ignored so many others. He yelled a lot more, over ridiculous things, and she told herself it was just the stress of the job, she felt it herself, knew it would get worse as she climbed the ranks. But Tom was reprimanded at work for picking fights with co-workers, he'd been threatened with dishonorable discharge – he argued he'd never get a job with that on his record and he claimed he would change. He promised her he would change, except he lifted a hand to strike her more often than she'd ever admit, never actually bringing it down, but the threat remained, it'd just shifted in its expression.

He held her too tightly in bed. He grabbed at her body aggressively. He picked her up easily and slammed her into the couch or the bed or the space on the wall beside their bedroom door and she ignored the bruising and the aching and pretended it was simply _spicy_ – didn't women want that in their love life? Didn't people buy whips and chains? Hire out third parties? She even explained away the nights he came home late, smelling like a pint had been dumped on him, and he forced himself on her.

Tom's eyes held an emptiness she wished to see full again, and she hoped it was just a phase – she continually told herself that's all it was. A rough patch of war time they'd get through together and in the end – _in the end it would be ok_. It would be better. And then he told her he'd taken the weekend and rented a cabin and he told her he'd ok'd it with her superiors and insisted she immediately pack a bag without question and head out. And Clara's heart throbbed in her chest and her stomach turned just a little with excited nausea because this was Tom.

This was _her_ Tom.

They held hands as he drove past the grey and the smoke of the cities into the greens and blue skies of the country, and Clara enjoyed the breeze through the open window of their beat up old black sedan. It was a small cabin, just beside a lake, and she could see others, spaced out just enough for privacy. She'd gone in to change because he asked. Out of the fatigues from work and into a sundress because he said they could watch the sun set together.

The gun in his hand when she swung back out into the living room space confused her. It was old fashioned – the kind with bullets people kept as antiques and she registered the pop of the hammering mechanism that sent the bullet flying before the pain in her chest. It was almost dulled, as though the shock settled in immediately, and the fall to the ground seemed slow, weightless; the collision soft, the bounce of her body gentle. She could taste the blood that trickled up her throat and it became almost impossible to take a breath and Clara managed to turn her head, to see Tom pacing with his hands at his waist, and she could hear him grumbling something to himself until he turned to look at her.

His face crumpled when he saw her lying there, warm blood soaking the front of her dress, and he told her quietly, " _I'm so sorry, Clara_ ," before raising the gun to his head and firing.

Her eyes fluttered shut against the image of his body jerking and falling to the ground, her mind going unconscious with shock, and then she heard the chaos around her. Someone was thankful the neighboring cabin had been occupied; someone else said she was lucky he missed her heart and punctured a lung instead. There was a world of commotion as more sophisticated equipment was brought in and she could hear the machine they'd wheeled to her side hum lightly as it scanned her. And then the room went eerily silent.

Clara managed to open her eyes to see, floating just above her, the outlines of her heart pumping, the blood shooting through her veins like pulsing beams of light, her good lung and beside it, the mangled heap of the other, still trying its best. There were the turns of her intestines, her various organs settled neatly where they should be, and she groaned lightly through the tube in her throat because she could see her enlarged uterus and the tiny fetus nestled inside.

"She's awake," came a surprised gasp and Clara could see one of the nurses at her side inject a solution into her IV drip, but she held her eyes open in spite of it, looking to that small start of a body shifting about. She felt herself going unconscious again just as someone muttered, "Poor girl."


	14. Chapter 14

Clara slept restlessly, even with the sedative, and she cried. The Doctor hadn't expected the crying; tears he knew came not from the pain of her injuries, or the infection plaguing them, but from memories he'd imprisoned her with. He watched her as he examined his own wounds, dabbing anti-infectant solutions over new threads he'd strung himself, and he heard her mumble his name, though he couldn't be sure she was calling out for him – she'd probably dealt with too many doctors and nurses in her time with UNIT.

He tossed the shirt she'd given him aside and stood with a small groan, making his way into the back bedroom to rummage through the closet and suitcases, curious about their existence, before plucking up a dark hoodie and a jacket, carefully pulling both on before kicking a pair of dark shoes out. They were a tad too small on him, but worn in, and he gave a few hops, then slowly went back out to the kitchen. She'd already made a list, he saw on the counter, and he looked over the contents and her calculations.

They had supplies for two months, potentially three if they stretched or supplemented them. " _Hunting_ ," she'd written, the word " _Lake_ " underneath circled multiple times. He understood her well enough and he set the paper back down when she groaned on the couch. Going back to the room, he searched for extra blankets, knowing she'd probably taken most out for them already, but he tucked a pillow underneath one arm and a thick grey wool quilt from the closet underneath the other and went back out.

"When you're alive in the morning," he told her, picking her head up to set it atop the pillow, "You might think to thank me." He spread the quilt over her and she shivered. "You might not _say_ it – stubbornness winning out over gratitude – but you'll _think_ it, and you're welcome."

He brushed a hand over her hair, now warm and wet with her sweat. He'd already given her one dose of the antibiotics and he knew she'd need another every twelve hours. Morning and night, he decided – breakfast and dinner. The Doctor wiped at her skin with his knuckles and he laid his palm to the side of her face, trying to re-establish a connection between them and he bent slightly when he felt the bites at his thigh. It was like a fire burning inside of his leg, one that tickled up into his lower abdomen and turned his knee and he knew it was her suffering.

"Only fair," he managed, collapsing back to the ground onto his mess of blankets there. Only fair he took a small amount of her pain for causing her to take his. He grimaced at the ceiling, but he heard her sigh with some relief, though the sigh gave way to quiet tears.

Tears from more memories, he knew – memories that could assault her more freely without the distraction of her leg. " _Oh... my Charlie_ ," she said clearly.

He tried to sleep, but knew it was no use. He didn't need it. She continued to mumble randomly, most of it nonsense, but he gathered _this_ Clara's mum was still around, as was her gran and someone named Tom. The name reduced her to a different sort of tears, ones that came with tremors and turning. Enough that he sat up nearing four in the morning and leaned into the couch, brushing at her hair and wiping her face dry.

And he _sang_.

The Doctor had never been very good at singing. He hadn't done it regularly since Susan had been a child, but he sang softly to Clara – some old Gallifreyan lullaby – and he watched her features soften. She relaxed and she began to take long steady breaths. He tilted his head to touch it to hers and his hand slid over her cheek, resting at her jaw as his thumb brushed her lips and his voice hummed in the cold quiet night air until he reached the end of the song and they remained, huddled together in that silence.

"I should have sang to her," he admitted. "She would have laughed at that."

He chuckled to himself, thinking about Clara sitting on the console, swinging from side to side in that odd chair she liked so much that she'd brought in one day with a satisfied smile. It seemed childish to him, when she would push off and spin several times, a lopsided grin on her face before she would stop and ask him a question. It was where she graded papers sometimes; lip held between her teeth, pen gripped in her hand, tapping at the air as she read. He imagined what she might have done if he'd come down the steps from the upper deck singing some old song.

" _That's it_ ," he could hear her saying, " _It's official – you've lost your mind with this regeneration_."

"My mind's been lost a lot longer than this regeneration," he sighed.

He could see her twist in his direction with a small bob of her head as she replied, " _I would know, I've been there for all of them_."

The Doctor lifted his head and looked to the woman at his side because the words had come delicately from her mouth and he watched the corners of her lips lift into the smallest of smiles. Before she frowned and swallowed roughly, brow dropping with some thought. He inched forward again and he whispered her name. He was terrified because if his theory had been right – if she was remembering _all of her_ – she was _dying_ , and his eyes watered instantly because it was too soon.

He sniffled loudly and willed those tears away because he became determined, in that moment, to save her, reaching to find her clammy hand to hold it tightly. To tell her sternly, "You hold on, Captain Palmer."

A long breath escaped her and she said, groggily, "Captain Palmer is dead."

"No, you're still with me, Clara," he argued.

Her head shook as she told him, "Tom is dead," and her face crumpled slightly with new tears as the Doctor shushed her soothingly, brushing at the hair on the top of her head with his free hand before he began to sing lightly again. Something, this time, he'd promised himself he would only sing to one person and he laughed as the old words came instantly to the front of his mind, as though his first wife, from beyond her own grave, had granted him permission to sing those words to another.

 _"_ _I'm a crazy sort of guy with the stars stuck in my eyes,_

 _But, I love you._

 _And if you'll forgive this offense and you'll give this man a chance,_

 _Well, I'll love you._

 _Until the universe's end and we make it round that bend_

 _And some miracle delivers us again._

 _I'll trust both my hearts to you and in everything we do,_

 _I will love you."_

He choked on the lyrics to a song he'd made up on a warm spring afternoon as they'd walked through a field of tall grass and purple flowers. He hadn't sung it in so long, and he'd forgotten how it brought back memories, but instead of that first wife on Gallifrey, he saw Clara. It felt unfair, how he'd only realized she'd filled that spot in his mind and in his hearts after she was gone, and he found himself lightly humming as he looked to the woman who wore her face and, _he knew_ , a part of that soul he cherished.

Touching his fingertips to the side of her head, he knew it would be an invasion for him to look into her nightmares, so he chose to offer a part of himself in their place. Just a bit of him that would provide her with peace because they were his good memories with Clara. Instead of whatever troubled her, she could see herself as he'd seen her. As he would always see her.

He'd taken her to a ballroom dance on a distant moon once and she'd worn a deep red gown that glittered in odd patterns. Her bare arms were tanned from a trip to old Egypt and he remembered watching them as he twirled her in place, following the moves of the other party goers on the floor. And then he saw that flash of a smile. Her hair was done in long waves, some extensions they offered as part of the package, and he felt his hearts skip at the sound of her laughter in his memory.

" _This is wonderful, Doctor_ ," she'd told him as the song came to an end, her gloved hands clasping together just underneath her chin as she looked up at the glass dome above them – the swirl of a purple and pink galaxy their view, " _Absolutely, breathtakingly, brilliant_."

" _I'm glad you approve_ ," he told her honestly.

With a point, she teased, " _Doesn't make up for the mummies in Egypt_."

He coughed, hands coming out, " _How was I to know there'd be mummies_?"

She merely smirked in response, reaching out and waiting for him to hesitantly take her hand. The Doctor smiled when she turned, that little hop she gave just after her giggle making his mind swim with an odd feeling he continually refused to identify with Clara. But this was the night he allowed it, because there was no point in denying it – it was _love_.

They made their way past dancers and a bar and towards a set of glass double doors that led to an external space kept safe by an oxygenized gravity bubble. He laughed as she released him and took several more steps forward towards a stone-like edging, her hands landing softly against the rough surface as she looked out to the moon's surface in awe. The Doctor could watch his companions stare out at new landscapes for the rest of his life – he certainly hoped he would – but Clara took his breath away.

Her smile widened and that dimple deepened and then she turned to look at him, that ever-ready twinkle in her dark eyes. He never understood how eyes so brown to be so bright, but there they were, staring at him in wonder and she gave him a nod of her head, beckoning him closer. Taking a long breath, he carefully crossed the space between them as she went back to looking out at the stars and he stood just behind her, his hands pushed into his pockets. She tilted her head and chuckled and he pinched his lips together for just a moment before she peered back at him.

" _It's an invitation_ ," she told him slowly, before adding, " _Look at me, I'm being subtle_."

He blushed and mumbled, " _I'm not quite sure I understand subtle_."

With a smile, she responded, " _Oh, I believe you do_."

The Doctor inched forward, just enough to press his body into hers and his eyes closed. He thought to tell her that his old hearts might just have given out, but she leaned back into him slightly and he brought his hands up to caress her shoulders, reveling in the smoothness of her skin, and way it sent a shock of arousal through him.

" _You definitely aren't the subtle type_ ," Clara teased.

He slid one hand up over her shoulder and swept the hair off her neck then, dropping his lips there to test her pulse, dizzy when he felt it hammering under a quick taste of his tongue. With the muted music just behind them, he dropped his hands to her hips as he kissed his way to her earlobe and stopped, nestling his temple to hers to look out at the rocks reaching out to the stars.

" _There's no going back from this, Clara_ ," he warned her softly.

She chuckled lightly, turning and meeting his satisfied grin with one of her own. One that glowed on her sun kissed skin; one that earned her a quickening of his hearts. It was the difference between her and his other companions, he knew – he could watch them look out at the landscape only until he looked to the landscape, but with Clara, he found he could be glad only to see her. He gave her hips a squeeze and soon they were softly swaying together, each simply staring into the other until the song came to an end, greeted by the cheers of an audience.

Clara sighed assuredly, " _Never backwards, Doctor; always forward_."


	15. Chapter 15

It was morning, Clara knew that much, but she wasn't quite certain just how long she'd been out. The sedative was simply an aid, allowing an injured person the sleep they needed in spite of the pain, and she tested her leg gingerly, flexing the muscles and grimacing. Nowhere near as bad, but it still burned. Of course it would, she told herself bluntly, it would take days for it to start healing. Weeks to feel normal again. She sighed and opened her eyes to look to the ceiling.

There were cobwebs high up between the logs, and she imagined those spiders had seen terrible things even before they'd arrived. She wondered what they'd seen in the time she'd been unconscious. Clara vaguely remembered a song she'd never heard before, the words in a language she'd never heard, except some part of her knew both of those things were untrue. In the hazy moment before her mind snapped completely info focus, she thought maybe she'd been a wife in another life and maybe she'd spoken a different tongue.

"Good timing," she heard the Doctor say quietly, "I was just about to start breakfast and was craving a solid today, are you feeling up to that?"

Clara blinked and focused, looking to that bushy haired man as he approached her, his hands clasped in front of him as he waited for her answer. She managed to groan, "How long was I out?"

His head toggled and she was glad at least he seemed in good spirits. Head movement pulled at the shoulder muscles which pulled at chest muscles. Maybe it was quick alien healing, she allowed as he considered her question, telling her hastily, "Day and a half."

She groaned.

"No worries, you only soiled yourself twice," he told her confidently.

Clara groaned again in annoyance.

"I made sure you were clean, touched nothing at all inappropriately; fashioned you a nappy out of an old shirt I washed beforehand," he continued as though she weren't currently bringing her arms up to clap her hands to her face in embarrassment. "Was thinking of making pancakes – there's a mix in the cupboard that just requires water, which I went to collect and boil earlier this morning..."

"Shut up," she growled.

"Still upset about the shot," he stated, "It had to be the buttocks, otherwise you could have resisted."

Her hands slipped off her face and she looked to him again. His brow had risen and he stared innocently, as though the offense had been the location of the shot and not the shot itself, and Clara laughed weakly. She pushed her elbows into the bed on either side of her and then she stopped, looking about her curiously. "How..." she started.

One of his long hands gestured towards her and then back at him and he told her plainly, "You seemed uncomfortable on the couch, I thought this would be better for you."

"Your wounds," Clara reminded, voice hoarse.

He chuckled, fingers swinging inward to point to his chest and shoulder, "These old things. Child's play."

Sitting up against the headboard, Clara watched his head drop down bashfully and she nodded, asking him, "So you mentioned pancakes?"

Eyes brightening, he responded, "Yes, already mixed the batter, but I'd found a pack of frozen blueberries and thought to check on you," Clara nodded, wondering how one thought lead to the other, "And you're awake, so would you like blueberries in your pancakes? Now that you can chew your own food."

She managed a smile, one that he seemed pleased to mirror, and she answered, "That would be lovely."

"Good," he stated simply, turning and leaving the room.

Taking a long breath, she could still smell the wood burning in the other room, knew he'd been keeping the fire going for her. She swept the sheets off her and looked down at her bare legs, her injured thigh wrapped firmly with a clean bandage. He'd changed her out of the dress – she'd probably pissed it through, she thought with a frustrated sigh – and she plucked at the man's blue shirt she wore, then looked down to the two sets of long socks he'd pulled almost to her knees, trying his best to keep her warm.

She couldn't help but appreciate it, even though she was still angry he'd rendered her unconscious. The Doctor might have been able to convince her to take the antibiotics without resorting to the sedative... at least she tried to convince herself of it, but she knew the truth. And eerily, Clara knew, he knew the truth – she wouldn't have taken the antibiotics otherwise.

Shifting her legs carefully over the side of the bed, she inched off of it, testing the pain before standing carefully to let the shirt drop to hang at mid-thigh. It reminded her of Tom's old shirts and how she'd pull them on in the morning from a pile beside their bed so she could make coffee without freezing to death in their flat. Frowning, she took a few steps towards the door and held the frame for support, then the wall that lead towards the kitchen. She could smell something like cake and smiled when she looked in to see him standing over the stove, not passing her a glance before sucking his teeth in annoyance.

"Knew you'd be up and about, figured there'd have been no point in telling you not to," he pointed, "But you ought not have."

"Expect me to lie about in bed all day," she responded lightly, casually, _comfortably_.

It surprised her, and she could see how it affected him. His shoulders bounced on a soft laugh as he started a new pancake on the pan, adjusting the heat in front of him with a nod. The Doctor's cheeks had gained color, she observed, and though he still favored his good shoulder, he had decent mobility in the other. He seemed just a bit sore, she considered. How very unfair, she smiled.

He turned then, telling her swiftly, "You really should go back to bed."

Instead she moved carefully towards a small table in the kitchen and pulled back a chair, settling herself into it and finding he'd already set down two glasses of water, two forks, and two tablemats. Finger gesturing at the items, she called, "You knew I'd wake today."

"You were stirring this morning," he told her without turning.

"You knew I'd come out here."

"You're the obstinate sort who would."

"You knew I'd sit down for breakfast," Clara finished, leaning back in her chair to cross her arms.

He was plating another pancake and then he switched off the stove, taking a cup of unused batter towards the fridge to store before he lifted the two plates and brought them to the table. "Seems you're a bit slow," he told her as he placed a plate in front of her. "I've told you already, you're a part of _my_ Clara, so in a lot of ways, I know nothing about you – I don't know how you were raised or what you've been through – but in a lot of ways, I know so very much about you – like your stubbornness is one of your strongest qualities."

She smiled, "So this is stubbornness."

"You don't like being challenged," he told her as he sat, then he gave her a smile. "I've challenged you."

"You've annoyed me," she retorted, picking up her fork and cutting into the pancakes and just as she raised her head to ask if there'd been syrup, she found him holding the bottle with an annoyingly righteous stare. "Doesn't mean you know me," she spat as she took it from him to pour over the pancakes and then she lifted her head again and opened her mouth, but he interrupted.

"I checked, there's no powdered sugar."

Clara's jaw remained hanging for one second before she snapped it shut in defiance. Just because he knew she liked syrup and powdered sugar on her pancakes didn't mean he knew her. "Loads of people like them that way," she countered quietly before shoving a piece into her mouth.

He merely chuckled and just as she lifted her head again, to ask about the antibiotics, he plucked the bottle from his jacket pocket and set it next to her glass. "Like I said," he told her, "I don't know everything."

Picking up the bottle, she shook a pill into her palm and then picked up her glass, feeling his eyes on her as she gulped it down, and then she went back to her pancakes, dropping her head slightly to avoid seeing him. But he continued watching. He'd lied, of course. She'd been asleep for the better part of a week and her fever had finally broken the night before.

Watching her tear through the four pancakes he'd put on her plate, he took a long breath of relief because he imagined she'd keep this down. So many meals had ended up spilled across the wooden floor next to that couch, he'd moved her mostly to get her away from the smell of it, and then the smell of him cleaning it with the supplies he'd found in a closet.

He'd bathed her once, carefully and thoroughly, and she'd punch him for it if he admitted it, but she'd been drenched in sweat and vomit and urine and defecation and her pride meant less to him than her health. Carrying her had been the hard part – not for her weight, but his injuries – but he'd settled them in a tub of cool water and watched her shiver against his chest as he worked a small towel over her skin to rub away the grime, mind memorizing every terrible scar.

That night he'd slept at her side after he'd dried and dressed her. He'd held her to him as closely as he could and he'd sung for hours, until his throat had gone dry and his eyes had watered over into her damp hair, fearful of losing her, and he stood only when he felt the fire had gone out in the living room, doubling the sheets overtop her to keep her warm as he went outside to bring in a new pile. He moved back into the room a half hour later to find her curled on her side, her tremors having subsided and her mind lost to some dream. Something nice, he hoped, seeing her calm face. Maybe a memory he'd given her of Clara and their travels.

He'd given her so many, he thought then with a smile, he wondered if she'd kept any, or if they'd remained dreams to her, mostly lost upon waking as dreams often went. He watched her tapping lightly at the pill bottle and then she raised it, looking over the label and setting it back down with a curious look on her face. One he wasn't sure he liked.

"I dreamt of a talking sun," she told him, "Sort of an odd dream."

"Dreams are all sorts of odd," he replied.

Nodding, Clara set her fork down and she looked to the Doctor. He was slowly eating, avoiding her stare, and she asked him, "Did you sing to me, while I was asleep?"

He gave her a look, as though what she'd said were ridiculous, and then allowed, "That's an absurd thought."

Clara prompted anyways, "But, did you?"

His head shifted slowly, an imperceptible nod, and then he shrugged, "I thought it might help."

"Did your mum sing to you when you were sick?"

The question struck him oddly, saddened him, and he answered after a moment, "Perhaps she had – it's been quite some time since I've thought of her. The mind's potentially ejected her from recollection in order to retain other things."

She picked up her fork and poked at syrup before asking quietly, "Did you sing to Clara?"

"I should have, but no, she would have thought me mad," he told her. "At least, with this face."

"Was she your wife?" Clara chanced to ask. She got the feeling, moreso now for some reason, as though there were some nagging memory she was forgetting she couldn't quite make her mind remember. Possible, as the Doctor had said, ejected to retain other things.

He cleared his throat and took a drink of water, standing to take their plates back to the kitchen to begin cleaning up because he didn't know how to answer the question without more questions. Was she? _Technically_ no. Did he consider her to be? _Possibly_ yes. Had they discussed it? Once or twice. On a gondola in Venice while she twirled the rings on her finger. It seemed a joke then, they played like it was.

"I was asleep for more than one day," Clara told him firmly.

He turned and she tapped the bottle. "Stubborn," he stated, "And clever."

 _Just like Clara_.


	16. Chapter 16

Clara chose to forgive his lie. She knew there really wasn't a point to be angry about it because he'd tried to do her a kindness. He'd tried to save her the embarrassment of knowing he'd had to take care of her for four days and instead of her natural inclination to be resentful, she chose to simply be thankful for him. That someone she'd essentially taken prisoner had decided to care for her instead of drag her body off into the woods to dispose of her... It would have been simple enough for him, she knew.

If he'd been able to get her up to change her; if he'd been able to get her from the couch to the bedroom, he could certainly drag her into the woods, reopen the scabs on her wounds, and let nature take care of her. It could have been his proper revenge. Instead she felt clean, clean enough that she absolutely knew he'd bathed her. He'd taken care to scrub between her toes and underneath her nails and there was the fresh scent of perfumed shampoo to her hair that told her he'd somehow held her head delicately in his grasp to wash and rinse her thick mane.

Her cheeks burned at the idea of this strange man's hands on her, but she found it wasn't – _oddly enough_ – because she felt violated in any way by him, but because she knew he'd handled her with the love and utter respect he still held for his lost companion. The woman he claimed she was a part of. Clara watched him washing the dishes in the kitchen and she knew: everything he did for her was done for _her_. She bowed her head because it'd been a long time since she'd gotten that treatment.

And she didn't deserve it.

Clara stood, ready to go back to the room and rest, but a small cry escaped her as she put her full weight down on her injured leg. Her body shifted, and might have collapsed from underneath her, but he rushed towards her and caught her easily, settling her back into her chair as he knelt in front of her, his hands at her sides as he hung his head and breathed a soft sigh that tickled her knees. For a moment she was tempted to touch the fluff of peppered hair that sat in front of her. To offer him a small bit of appreciation. But her fingers remained tightly gripped to the table at her right and her chair at her left.

And then his shoulders shook unexpectedly with a quiet sob. One he immediately turned away from, swallowing it down to hold it back, a long sniff as he pushed off the chair gently and stood, turning awkwardly and taking a few steps into the kitchen while Clara watched. He couldn't look at her face, not in that moment, not thinking about how he wished he could have caught her before she fell on that planet. Before her body slumped to the rocky ground, already dying.

He could sense the question she wasn't asking, wanting desperately to know what was on his mind, and he forced his eyes to the sympathetic look on her face as he offered, "Be careful," then he forced a swallow and gestured to her, "Next time I'll let you fall."

But Clara shook her head and replied, "No, I don't believe you will."

Her voice was barely there, but it was earnest and it forced him to stare. Her features had softened. She'd let her guard down, he knew, _completely_. For a moment he considered the fact that she might be trying to trust him – that she might be learning she could – and his stomach did a hopeful turn. Twisting his hands together, he watched her blush automatically, under his gaze, and he could see the corners of her lips tweak upward. That dot of a dimple on her left cheek deepening as she smiled. No, he knew, he wouldn't let her fall again.

Not ever.

"I thought maybe we could go for a walk," he told her lightly. She glanced up and he could see the uncertainty in her eyes and he chuckled, finishing a she gestured towards her, "Suppose not, if just getting back to your room is a challenge." Then he added, "Maybe in a few days."

Clara nodded in agreement and asked playfully, "How are you so spry?"

"I may be over two thousand, but I've got some life left in me yet," he teased, grinning and watching her shake her head in amusement.

"That Gallifreyan genetics, getting to heal from laser wounds through the chest so quickly," Clara pondered, and then she stood again, this time carefully, and limped towards the couch.

He stopped her with an outstretched hand and for a moment she stared at him in confusion, until he reached for hers, fingers slipping around hers as he offered, "Balance."

Swallowing roughly, Clara licked her lips and gripped his hand, letting him walk with her towards the couch where she dropped down and looked to the fire with a pained stare. "Funny how it hurts the worst when it's healing."

He stepped around her and sat gingerly into the cushion beside her, rubbing his hands together in the warmer air and thinking about the words. He was healing, he knew. Not only from the physical wounds, but from his Clara's death and she was right. He thought maybe finding her would have made it easier, but he knew the truth – he sought to find her to not think about it. To carry on the way he had before, simply picking up a new version of the woman he longed for and drifting off into the stars.

"What's on your mind?"

Clara's voice was meek. He might say frightened, but he knew her better. He chanced to glance sideways to see her watching him curiously, and then he told her honestly, "It hurts the worst when it's healing."

She smiled.

"I thought finding you would make the pain of her death easier."

"I thought killing you would make the pain of my son's death easier," she countered, brutally honest in a way he hadn't been expecting, and he sat up as she shrugged, "Nothing makes death easier – especially when people are taken from you suddenly, much too soon – it's still death and the permanence is unsettling."

He watched her avoid his eyes, knew he shouldn't question her son's death just yet, and he allowed, "I suppose we're conditioned to believe in immortality; the thought of one's own end too morbid to consider for very long without someone questioning one's mental state."

There was something haunted about the way she stared into the fire now, and he watched as the hands in her lap shifted, her left thumb coming up to rub at the underside of her right wrist, to glide along a scar that sat pale against the rest of her skin. She'd considered her own end, he knew – she'd taken a blade to her skin. He wondered what she'd been thinking about then. Was she the sort to believe in an afterlife? He imagined she would; his Clara would.

"I'm sorry," he told her plainly.

She turned and frowned, asking, "For what?"

"Everything," he stated.

Reaching a hand out, he waited, and after a moment, she turned her hand over, lying the back of it against his palm so he could look down at her flesh. He could feel the slight tremble as he turned towards her, his right hand coming up to slowly drag his thumb over the skin just beside the scar. A scar that held no hesitation, no second guesses, only a quick angry slice of determination. He let his right hand twist and open and Clara slowly laid her other hand into it.

"And then you found regret," he told her as he looked to the second scar. The shorter one that held a light trail at its end, as though she'd dug the blade in and then quickly pulled it away in shock. As though the finality of the decision registered.

Clara nodded and admitted, "I thought about my mum finding me dead in my nightie, sprawled on the bathroom floor." Her bottom lip shook as she told him, "A mum should never have to hold their child's lifeless body, Doctor. That's what I became a soldier for – to stop mums and dads from burying their children."

"And then you had to bury your own," he told her solemnly.

Her lips pressed together into a tortured smile as she stated, " _Casualty of war's_ what they call it, but they won't call it what it was – _murder_. And they pretend he's just another number. My baby was not just a number, Doctor, he was my miracle." Her eyes came up to meet his and he watched her tears drop heavily over her cheeks and off her chin. "He shouldn't have been born and the universe decided to gift me one impossible thing, and then they took him from me."

He could see the color rising in her face and he watched the pulse at her neck quicken and he asked delicately, "Tell me about him, Clara."

Her face fell, and she shook her head, "His body was so..."

Stopping her with a shushing, his hands squeezing against hers gently, he corrected, "Tell me about his voice; tell me about his smile. Tell me what he loved and how he ran and how very much like you he was, Clara." The Doctor watched her raise her eyes again to him and he explained, "Tell me about his _life_ , Clara."

And her laugh was instant in those memories.

Clara was nodding, the sound of her son's cheerful giggle resonating in her mind, and the Doctor heard it like a song in his head through her. He could see the flashes of the toddler rushing through a park, turning to squeal because she was chasing after him, her arms outstretched, her sundress flowing as she sang, " _I'm gonna get you, Charlie!"_

" _No, mummy, no_ ," he responded on a laugh, his dark hair bouncing with each exaggerated step he took away from her towards a pumpkin colored picnic blanket that sat underneath a tree. Clara laughed as the boy flopped down onto it, his bare feet swinging up behind him, and then he twisted and raised his hands as she dropped just beside him, curling her fingers around his sides to tickle him.

His eyes were light, like newborn leaves, and they disappeared behind the rise of high chubby cheeks as he laughed, his small fingers reaching out to retaliate, and Clara easily lifted him into her lap, arms circling around him to hold him to her. They rocked, each breathing heavily, small remnants of left over giggles occasionally mingling with the ragged huffs and then she kissed his temple before turning him in her lap, letting him straddle her so she could push his hair back to look at the reddened round face that smiled up at her.

" _Are we going to see Gran now_?" He questioned curiously.

Clara grinned to ask, " _Would you like to go see Gran, Charlie_?"

" _If it's no bother, mummy_ ," he responded lightly.

His voice was hoarse, and the sentence tapered off as though he hadn't the breath to say it. The Doctor imagined he was a timid little boy who loved to read picture books and stare at the sky with wonder, he seemed far too innocent to be anything else. Charlie held Clara's shoulders and waited and when she nodded, his grin widened. The Doctor could see her memory as sharp as if he were standing in that field with her and he listened as they broke into a child's song, each randomly laughing at the odd lyrics.

She shifted him in her arms, cradling him lovingly as he went silent and her voice was all that was left, singing calmly to him as he watched her adoringly. " _I'm not a baby anymore, mummy_ ," he told her softly when she'd finished.

" _Charlie_ ," she sighed, " _You will always be my baby_."

And then the Doctor stepped back because the colors of this world faded – her memory _changing_ – and he found himself coughing through smoke and listening to a woman's wails. There were faceless people running all around him and he glanced around to see rescue vehicles and fire hoses and medical personnel. Voices were shouting instructions, but in her memory it was simply jibberish, and then he found her.

Clara sat atop the edge of a heap of red and grey bricks that, he could see with one periphery look, had been a large building, and she bellowed as she brought the child in her lap up against her to hold fiercely. No one moved to take him from her as she slowly rocked him back and forth, as though he might be sleeping, calling his name. The Doctor turned away, but his hearts were pounding in his chest as his head gave a dizzying spin and he understood – these were her feelings he was absorbing.

She was _suffering_.

Eyes snapping open, he looked to the woman sobbing front of him and he released her hands, reaching up to plant his hands quickly on either side of her head before uttering quietly, "I'm sorry," and he rendered her unconscious, immediately implanting a memory of the fields of Gallifrey to quiet her mind and sooth her tears.

She collapsed into him and the Doctor felt as though his chest had caved in because lying peacefully against him, he couldn't help but look to her pulse. To watch it beat away calmly at her neck. Because she was alive, he reminded himself. Damaged and wounded and conflicted, but this Clara was alive, but in that quick moment he saw her dead. The Doctor saw her bloodied shirt and that tiny smirk and the stillness of her, and he gripped this Clara to him, arms wrapping tightly in a hug he promised in that moment he'd give more of.

And he rocked her, letting his tears fall as he continually apologized softly into her hair.


	17. Chapter 17

The fire went out completely just before lunch, but he let it smolder, watching the tendrils of grey smoke swirl up into the chimney to disappear into the darkness. He'd pulled her fully into his lap, turning to press his back into the couch and letting her head lay against his shoulder as she continued to sleep. In that moment he didn't care if she woke and punched him square in the jaw – he needed her closeness and, he convinced himself, she needed his.

The air cooled around them and she reached up with a sigh to take hold of his jumper, fingers gripping around the edges of it as she inhaled him and snuggled her head into him. He pulled a dingy brown throw off the couch and arranged it over them, then held her lightly, watching her sleep comfortably and calmly with a nostalgic grin. He could recall the first night _his_ Clara had done the same. They'd been on some distant planet, chased into the woods by an angry mob over a misunderstanding.

" _If they'd just listen_ ," he started to tell her.

" _If you'd learn to speak in a straight line without the thinly veiled insults_ ," she'd shouted back.

There'd been just a moment of tension before she hung her head and apologized, before she'd approached him and reached for his hand because she'd managed to hurt his feelings – one of the few people who could – and she knew it. Clara had watched his hand hanging limply in hers and she'd raised it to her lips to kiss before letting it drop away, walking away from him and into a crevice made by the roots of a tree.

" _No, don't_ ," he'd started, hand lifting to gesture. She'd turned and he could see the exhaustion on her face. The human need for sleep after so many hours awake, and he smiled quickly, pointing upward, " _You don't want to get bit by night bugs here, better to find higher ground_."

Clara had sighed and replied lightly, " _Bugs climb trees_."

He knew there'd been a story behind her words, imagined she'd climbed a tree as a child and had been stung by a bee, or bitten by a line of ants she'd happened to place her hand in, but he didn't ask for it. The Doctor merely moved forward and gave her a gentle prod, urging her to begin climbing the thick branches until they were several feet off the ground, balanced in a nook just barely big enough for the both of them, and she was looking around, face lined with apprehension.

" _What if I fall_?" She'd asked quietly, fatigue stealing her voice.

The Doctor had shifted down into the spot next to her and he'd lifted an arm, giving her a nod when she raised an eyebrow, and then he'd pulled her closer, eyes closing as she relaxed into him and rested her head against his shoulder, explaining, " _I'd never let you fall_." Then he'd teased, " _You'd inevitably break something and I'd have to carry you and that would be counterproductive_."

Clara had laughed, her hand lifting and dropping at his chest, fingertips scraping lightly, and she'd yawned, whispering, " _Shut up, Doctor_."

Now he felt her shift slightly, and he knew when she'd woken because her body tensed for just a moment as realization dawned on her, but she settled again. Clara trusted him to hold her this way, but she didn't know why, except maybe she did now. Without the lies UNIT had fed her to use her as a weapon against the Doctor, she could consider the truths he'd revealed to her – that she was a small piece of a whole woman who had lived and died for a man she loved. She smiled then, taking long breaths of the man who hid under the cover of another man's clothes.

"It's not really fair, being a part of someone who loved you," she told him quietly.

He cleared his throat and asked, "Why's that?"

"Because I should want to hurt you," Clara told him honestly, pushing up to look down at the light eyes that traced her face. She'd tried to avoid it, but now she watched curiously, seeing the little flecks of blue in all of that silver. Seeing the way his face smoothed the longer he gazed, as though she were some drug to heal his ailments.

With a nod, the Doctor stated simply, "But you don't."

Clara swallowed roughly and repeated, "I don't."

"How do you feel?" He questioned.

She laughed. "Confused."

He smirked, "I meant the leg."

"Oh," she gasped, "Oh, the leg," she lifted it lightly and grimaced, then answered him honestly, "Sore mostly, I've had worse."

His head was bobbing up and down when she looked back to him, and she knew the question on his mind, knew it had to have been festering there from the moment he'd looked over her naked body when he'd bathed her. But he wouldn't ask, she knew, out of respect. The same respect he'd been fighting to maintain the few days they'd been there, she knew. Torn between his familiarity with her and her unease with him.

"Gunshots heal," she told him before sighing. "We could try for a walk? Maybe just around the cabin?"

Hanging his head, he laughed and then nodded to look up at her, telling her softly, "I'll get you trousers. Looked like there'd been a woman about your size here before we arrived."

Gently shifting her to the couch, he stood and when he turned, hands clasped together, Clara answered the unspoken question with a half-truth, "They were gone when we arrived – dunno what happened to them."

Twisting back, more questions still lingering, he went into the back room as Clara looked to her thigh. A walk might do her some good after so many days lying in bed, though she knew it would take effort and she knew he would insist on dosing her with pain killers later. Looking to the ground, she was suddenly aware that the first aid kit was no longer there and she whipped her head about, trying to locate it.

"It's in the toilet," the Doctor offered, holding out a pair of dark wool trousers and a set of worn grey trainers. "And no, I haven't squandered any of it."

She smiled, "Seems we're pretty good at..."

"Reading each other?" He finished.

Clara took the items from him and she looked up at him a moment, just before the _ah-ha_ registered on his face and he pointed, turning and moving swiftly towards the front door of the cabin, going outside to give her some semblance of privacy. She laughed then, in the quiet he left behind, and it surprised her that she hadn't even considered him leaving; Clara knew she would make her way out that front door and he would be rubbing his hands together in the cooler air, ready to be her crutch if she needed.

He was going to be there for her and he had no real reason to be.

It stopped her awkward tugging of the trousers over her legs because it was a profound thought and it struck at something that hadn't been touched in a long time. It tickled a broken heart and she found herself angry that he could do that so easily to her. Clara stood carefully and plucked the elastic waistband up over her backside and let it snap onto her body before sitting to get the trainers on. She shook her head against the thoughts that were plaguing her – the idea that in spite of everything, the Doctor could truly unconditionally simply love her, even as some remnant...

"Clara? It's actually a bit warmer than I thought it would be, but would you like to bring a blanket or a jacket in case you get cold?" The Doctor's voice boomed mutedly through the thick wooden door and she pushed herself up to stand again, glancing to the throw and pursing her lips. "The jackets are in the closet by the front door," he stated suddenly, as if knowing she wouldn't care for a blanket.

" _How do you do that_?" She whispered.

"Stop questioning how I know you so well and let's get a move on before the sun gets lower," he called.

She groaned and limped her way towards the door, opening the closet he spoke of and plucking out a jacket to push her arms through before she heard the creak of the wood at her side and grabbed for the handle to open the door fully, looking out to his perplexed face. He waved an arm at her and moved down the front steps quickly, stopping on the last one to stretch and look out at the forest. Clara took a few steps and reached for the railing that rounded the front porch and she gripped tightly to the wood as she made her way down to his side, narrowing her eyes against the sun as she looked around.

The Doctor took a long breath, "Ah," he gasped, "Fresh air."

She shrugged, but she knew his meaning. The warmth on her skin from the sun above them was a welcome feeling and it heated the jacket she wore and she knew within minutes she would feel the first prickles of sweat underneath her arms. Smiling at the thought, she was distracted as he leapt off that final step and moved quickly towards the trees, reaching up to point.

"At least a few hundred years old – maybe as old as I am," he proclaimed.

"Old trees," she sighed, "Wonderful."

"Ah," he turned to smile, "Tell me you don't love 'em, Clara."

With a laugh, she nodded, "Ok, I love them."

"Well, come on," he encouraged. "I bet we can make it to the lake and back," he offered as a challenge before moving back towards her and holding out his good arm, waiting. She looked up at him, at the way he was now eyeing the sky and she sighed, curling her arm around his so he could lead her.

And as much as she expected him to tear off into the wilderness, he didn't. His steps were slow and careful, each with a glance back at her and sometimes her leg. He was cognoscente of when the dips in the terrain would pain her and when the long flat surfaces allowed her to turn her concentration to the chirps of birds or the crackle of falling branches. They moved along much quicker than Clara had anticipated and fairly soon they were staring out at the calm waters of the lake she'd submerged the chopper in.

He ushered her towards the dried up log of a fallen tree and Clara leaned into it, relief flooding her as she took the weight off her leg and when she looked up, it was to concerned eyes and the slow and careful question, "Are you alright?"

"It's fine," she argued, nodding slowly, "It hurts, but it's worth it." She nodded out towards the water and the Doctor twisted on the spot, then shifted back to fall into the space next to her, both of them lulled by the gentle repetitive slaps of the smallest waves lapping against the shoreline of pebbles.

The Doctor knew she was thinking of her son, it was the thing seldom acknowledged or thought about when one lost a child – all of the memories stolen from them with that death. He could see in the smile that rested calmly on her lips that she was envisioning the boy as he would stand now, at the edge of that water. The Doctor imagined it couldn't have been too many years since his death... he would be six or seven.

His face would still have that roundness about it, like his mother, and he would cheerfully pluck through the pebbles searching for just the right one to stand and skip over the water. He would turn those bright eyes back to her for approval and she would laugh. The Doctor frowned because she was silently crying, and he stood, moving to the water's edge to search out a round wide stone, picking it up into his hand to bounce once in his palm before he launched it across the surface and in that swing he realized his Clara would have done it better.

 _And she'd never have a child to teach_.

Knees buckling slightly, he realized he'd robbed her of that with his lifestyle. Air leaving him, he realized he felt robbed himself and he couldn't quite put his finger on why... except maybe he could, if he allowed himself to – _they_ could have had a child. One raised amongst the stars; one raised with the love of a universe. He felt the pebbles crush his skin as he fell, palms digging into handfuls of stones, and he held his breath against the agony of it, knowing how badly Clara had wanted it. She'd chosen _him_ over it, and they both knew it.

" _This universe, Doctor, this life? What sort of woman brings a child into it_?"

He felt the hands grip at his shoulders and he closed his eyes against seeing the woman now falling to his side with a small yelp of pain, her voice shaky as she called his name. With a shake of his head and a sorrowful laugh, he allowed, "Our son would have loved it here, Clara."

And in spite of his words making no sense, she smiled through her tears and pulled him into an awkward hug, nodding against his shoulder and telling him, "I know he would have, Doctor," before giving in to her sadness and burying her face in this strange man's shirt, not surprised anymore to find so much comfort in his company.


	18. Chapter 18

Their tears eventually dried and neither said a word as they unlatched from each other and turned to look out at the water. In the sky above them, the sun continued on its path towards the horizon and the temperature began to drop slowly, but neither of them felt it. Clara was envisioning a boy at her right, one with a mop of unruly dark hair that oft times hid sparkling eyes who would be making a pile of stones, telling her stories about them and how he should keep some at home. Charlie loved to collect the strangest things and she still had a shoe box, hidden under her bed, of a random assortment of his trinkets – things she'd collected from his pockets as she washed his clothes.

At her side, the Doctor didn't have to imagine very hard to see the woman he craved at his left. Her hair fluttered around her face delicately and her eyes scanned the horizon but were somewhere else entirely, mind filled with thoughts he couldn't come close to fathoming. It was one of the things he loved about Clara – how easily she took the mess in her head and made sense of it, though he knew it didn't always make sense. He smiled to himself and bowed his head, glancing beside him and then looking back to the water.

"We should get back soon, you need a warm bath, some food..." his words trailed because she turned her eyes to him and she took his breath away. He laughed – she'd said it'd been unfair, earlier in the day, that she felt an odd pull towards him that made it hard for her to hate him when she rightfully should have, but he felt it unfair she could look at him with those eyes and steal his air. He wanted to make a joke of it, but it felt inappropriate, because he knew her thoughts were on her son.

"His birthday would have been next week," she told him softly.

"Six?" He questioned.

"Yeah," she confirmed with a smile.

"They truly start to see the world around that age, maybe a _little_ older – just before they start to question everything and disobey their parents to spite them, there's a wonder in their hearts, cultivated from birth." He sighed, "I'm sorry, about before, it was wrong of me to..."

Her hand came up stop him and she asked lightly, "Had you and your Clara lost a son?"

The Doctor frowned at the way her voice was thick with concern, genuine concern he knew, and he told her honestly, "We never had the chance to conceive one, or to even really _consider_ conceiving one." He picked at the stones in front of him and turned to say, "She thought the travelling was dangerous."

"And you weren't willing to give it up," she responded on a nod.

Shrugging, he lamented, "She never asked."

"If she had," Clara began uneasily, "Would you have?"

His brow came up, the thought bouncing around in his mind and calculating for a correct answer – he'd never even considered it, and he wondered if Clara had. Sighing at the ground, he understood, "Clara knew I never could." He smiled up at her, "So she chose to give up her potential children for me."

With a small smile, Clara teased, "Maybe she was waiting for you to change your mind."

He laughed, "Were it so simple."

"I believe it is," she stated confidently, and he knew her meaning: If she thought it was that simple, and she was an echo of Clara – if she were an _extension_ of Clara – then Clara would have thought it simple as well.

Straightening slightly, he rubbed at the back of his head with a wince, and then told her, "The stubborn old idiot and the stubborn egomaniac – we did make quite the pair."

She laughed at that, and then she nodded, "Help me up, would you?"

Standing, the Doctor held out his hands and took Clara's, teeth clenching as she hoisted herself up while trying to keep her weight off her injured leg. He held her steady and helped her back off the unstable ground of pebbles, thinking about how much it had to have hurt her to rush to his side. With an appreciative glance, he looked her over now, and how different she seemed from just a few days ago.

Gone were the rigidity in her shoulders and the cold look in her eyes, replaced by a casual flow to her step and an easy smile when she happened to notice him staring. And she blushed. Despite the colder air that paled her skin, her cheeks instantly dotted themselves pink just before she turned away, caught. He felt his own grow warm and he damned her for that because it felt suddenly like a betrayal, though he knew it couldn't be. Anything he felt for any of her echoes – it was still _Clara_.

"You stare a lot," she finally stated.

"Can't help it," he joked, "You remind me of someone."

"Ha ha," she emphasized as she looked to him, waiting for his shy chuckle. Clara grinned as she watched him fumble for a spot to put his hands, as though he'd been accustomed to something entirely different, and she remembered how he'd entered that building – his tool in one hand, a dapper suit on his thin frame.

They were both quite out of their element, she understood.

Maybe for the best, he thought to himself.

"So what's your plan," he asked after a while, looking to the way her brow furrowed as she considered the question, and he was glad that the answer wasn't immediate on her mind. That she had to remind herself there was a plan to make – that she had to remind herself of her own anger.

Clara's hands came together then, grabbing at each other anxiously, and she told him on a nod, "First is healing – no sense in running at an enemy when you can't even run."

"Enemy," he scoffed.

She turned to aim a deadly stare at him, "They're my enemy."

He gestured at himself, "I was your enemy five days ago."

"And you're not now," she spat, "Be grateful."

"Oh," he gasped, "Believe me, I am."

They looked nervously at each other, until finally she shrugged, "We heal, then we plan."

"Suppose there's no sense in trying to argue that taking on UNIT by _force_ is a futile effort," he sighed, glancing up to see the cabin sitting quietly in the distance. He turned to see her lip twisting in thought and he continued, "You do understand they're practically an army – I gather they are an army now – and you're one woman." His hands came up when she looked to him, "A very angry and capable woman, but no less one woman."

And she smirked, "But I'm not just one woman," she reached out to hit his arm lightly with the back of her hand as she stated, "I've got you, don't I?"

It was a question that seemed playful, but the Doctor could hear the apprehension behind it. Would he help her if she asked – and he was somewhat relieved she'd backed away from demanding and was currently, _curiously_ , asking him. With a small nod as they reached the front steps, he told her, "I'm going to need to get my Sonic, my Tardis, my suit would be nice, if it's still available."

"You help me; I help you," she offered.

He stared, frozen as he watched her smile growing, and then he stated calmly, "You understand it's a dangerous thing you ask of me."

Tilting her head, she reminded, "Wasn't it you who said you led a dangerous life?"

His eyes closed momentarily and he explained candidly, "Clara, you will die."

When he looked back at her, she was swallowing roughly, her head dropping and rising in a slow nod of acceptance that cooled his hearts, and she bit her lip. There was an idea, he could see, forming in her mind, and he watched her turn away and push it aside – an _impossible_ thing he might have been thinking himself, but knew she didn't feel it was her place to ask. At least not just yet. He laughed lightly, realizing he might consider it – he might consider it for her this time.

Leaving that danger behind.

Maybe it was time.

"So will you help me," she finally said, reaching to take hold of the railing that lead up the steps to the cabin, gripping it so tightly her knuckles were bone white. She was afraid, he knew. Because she trusted he was right.

The Doctor looked to the cabin and then back at her and he nodded slowly, "I'll help you heal, and then we can discuss this further."

"Clinical," she spat.

"I am the Doctor," he responded, hand shooting out.

She took it and let him lead her up into the house where she dropped onto the couch with a whine she held in, because she didn't want him to know the extent of her pain – but he knew. Her heart was broken and re-broken and re-broken again. He knew that feeling well; knew it lead to two outcomes. Not cared for, Clara's heart could harden over, the scars like shields against rational thought, or... he considered as he began to stack new logs into the fireplace, she could be kind.

Right now she was blank, hands picking at each other in her lap, stomach grumbling audibly, and he frowned as he went into the kitchen to search for the cans of soups in the cupboards. He watered one down and they split it, according to instructions she'd written down for conserving their supply, and they ate in silence as the fire blazed back up in front of them, both staring into it and avoiding each other. Both avoiding the fact that if Clara decided to attack UNIT, she would die in that battle, but that if she decided to attack UNIT, the Doctor would be at her side until she did.

Unless they both abandoned the only things left in their lives that meant anything.

Her _revenge_.

His _Tardis_.

The sudden downpour outside roused the Doctor and he turned to look at Clara, eyes half closed as she watched the flames dancing about. He wished he could pretend, in that moment, that their situation didn't seem as dire as it truly was, except he kept seeing her lying in her coffin. Her face had been made up to give the appearance of life – _of an eternal sleep_ – like Sleeping Beauty, he'd thought at the time. " _How apt_ ," he'd told Jenny, knowing she wouldn't understand without his explanation, one he wasn't willing to share.

Though by her small smile, he supposed she had an idea.

The cascade of wondrous browns he'd enjoyed admiring from afar and occasionally running his fingers through had been tamed around her head like an odd halo and her hands were laid together atop her stomach. And she had her mother's ring. He'd smiled at that touch, that her father had remembered how much it meant to her and how right it had been to bury her with it – what else could he do, there were no children to hand the heirloom to.

But the Doctor kept her book.

Selfishly, he supposed, adding it to a special spot in his private collection in a bedroom very few had access to, where no future companion could lay eyes on it, because it had been her mum's, it had become _theirs_ – _his and Clara's_ ; their days and their stories written through and around the pages of that children's book. He thought about tucking it into her coffin with her, but it felt foolish. It would crumble and wither and turn to dust with her, rather than remain a living memory, one he could pluck from his shelf to leaf through the pages to remember her by. _Selfishly_ , he knew.

He'd held her hand one last time then, gripping tightly and tucking a single key into her palm. And though he didn't believe in an afterlife, he'd bent to kiss her forehead and whisper lightly, as he thought to a painting hidden deep in his library, " _Remember me, Clara, for we shall meet again_."

Blinking away tears, he looked down at the hand that had reached for his. The Doctor watched the fingers that curled around his tightly, warmly, assuring, without his asking – simply out of empathy – and he nodded slowly, knowing they had time. Plenty of time to change their minds.


	19. Chapter 19

The Doctor watched the stars travel across the sky just after midnight. It was a slow process, _but there they went_ , he thought with a small nod of his head – he could never quite understand humanity and their insistence on slowing everything down. Though he supposed they couldn't control the stars, they were merely symbolic of his thoughts... but everything had to be so slow, agonizingly slow, or blazing fast. Lighting decisions with no room for regret, like band-aids ripped from wounds. Sometimes, he knew, all too soon. But _there they_ went, he sighed as he leaned into the wooden post at his side.

And then she shouted out.

It was a warbled " _No_ ," the sound jump starting his hearts as he turned and pushed into the cabin, loudly stomping his way into that back room to see her sitting up in bed with her face in her hands. He knew it'd been a nightmare about her son and for a moment he was thankful he needed so little sleep – there were less opportunities for him to relive Clara's death, the way this Clara relived her child's. He touched at his chest, to the slight burning sensation of his sudden rush of movements and he watched her wipe at tears.

"Are you alright?"

He asked the question softly, hoping he wouldn't startle her, and in the dim light he could see the small smile playing on her lips as she looked to the window. "Do you really sail through those stars, Doctor?"

Sitting on the bed, he watched her turn slowly to look at him. Her voice had been thick with sleep and sadness and both feelings hung heavily on her face as she waited for his answer, a simple quiet, "Yes."

Clara pushed at the sheets and she whimpered, "Help me."

The Doctor stood instantly, moving to her side to help her inch off the bed and he knew her leg ached – knew she'd probably been tense in the throws of her nightmare, aggravating the muscles in her body. He held her hand to steady her and could feel the heat radiating off her, not from a fever, but from fear. She moved and he went with her, steady towards the restroom where she stood still in the cooler air, taking long breaths to calm her heart.

"I'll wait outside," he told her, shifting back, but her hand held tightly to his, shakily.

And her eyes came up to meet his curious gaze as she told him, "You bathed me before."

He nodded, "You were unconscious."

Clara looked to the ground as she admitted, "I don't think I could do this alone."

With another small nod, he assured, "Whatever you need, Clara."

"Why?" She asked lightly, head tilting up to watch him in the darkness, "I don't understand why you're doing this – why you're helping me? Why you're..."

He bowed his head and she went silent and he admitted, "I came looking for you so that I could help you."

"And I shot you and handed you over to UNIT," she reminded.

Gripping her trembling hand, he stated, "And here we are."

Her head bobbed and then she stepped forward and laid her head to his chest, her ear listening for the double set of thumps that lay just inside. She found it strangely comforting and she wondered if his Clara had found the same comfort. In the hours between lunch and dinner she'd thought about that other woman. All of her time with UNIT, she'd been trained to believe the Doctor was a callous calculated killer, and yet she'd watched him dissolve into unabashed sobs at just the idea of the future he'd been robbed of with one human's death.

She'd been given documentation stating he was responsible for wars, had ordered executions, and had stood by and allowed travesties to occur... and yet here he was, nothing more than a fragile man she held under her thumb. Because of her face; because of a flicker of warmth in her heart that called to him through time and space, connecting back to the woman he'd lost.

"Are you really responsible for terrible things?"

"Yes," he told her bluntly, "But not the things you've been told to believe."

"I don't know what to believe anymore," she sighed honestly, shifting back away from him and limping towards the tub, twisting the handle to start a torrent of water from a showerhead above. Cupping her hand underneath it, she measured the cool water's temperature against her skin until it was tolerable, and then she tugged at her jumper, pulling it over her head and dropping it to the floor.

The Doctor's hands came together nervously as she pushed her trousers to the ground and then stripped herself of her undergarments before she held a hand out towards him and he looked to her. In the little light coming in from the moon outside, he could barely see the outline of her body and somehow it was different, her standing there, instead of asleep in his arms. He wrapped his fingers around hers so she could climb under the water, instantly hissing at the cool water against her warm skin. She shivered, hands finding her bandages to undo them, and then she shouted.

He stepped closer, steadying her until the pain dulled, and then he turned away and she laughed. It was low, muted by the water, and he knew why. What was left that he hadn't seen? He rubbed at the back of his neck, hearing the small splashes as she quickly bathed and then she turned off the shower, teeth clattering as she reached for a towel and only then did he turn back.

"Didn't take you for the timid sort," she finally told him as she stepped out with his aid and picked her trousers up, sitting to try and get a better look at her wound.

He waved a hand towards her and scoffed, "Just showing a little respect, surely you understand."

Clara offered a nod, then asked, "What was your relationship like with your Clara?"

The smile on his lips was shy and he huffed a laugh as she waited.

"Come _on_ ," she urged.

Helping her up, he waited until she was steady to hand her the jumper, and he told her honestly as she pulled it over her head, "I know what's on your mind and no, we weren't passionate lovers – though we did occasionally make love, because it meant something to her and _because_ it meant something to her, by proxy it meant something to me." He shrugged, "But it's not really my area."

"Asexual," she huffed on a nod, "I get it."

"Humans and their labels," he sighed before helping her onto the bed, knowing the bath had made her wounds tender, and he pulled back the sheets properly for her so she could lay down. The Doctor went to retrieve the first aid kit and when he returned, he looked her over as she stared up at him, and he knew she was waiting. She was curious, he accepted, and he nodded, "It was long and it was slow – took us some time to find our footing after... everything that happened."

"But what was it like," she whined as he opened the kit and nudged aside her good leg and lifted the other, trying to gauge just how much bandage she would need, knowing there were only so many supplies in the box.

He pulled a wide bandage for the larger wound and applied it, sighing, "It wasn't unlike many relationships – we went on dates, though we called them travels; sometimes we held hands, though I expressed irritated resistance; and sometimes she was in the mood for kissing."

His eyebrows popped up as he remembered her penchant for tugging his lapel, eager to press her lips to his, or to his cheek. The Doctor put up a fight, but he enjoyed those tiny shows of affection. They were her reminders that no matter what happened, or what they went through, she was standing there just beside him no worse for the wear. And no less in love.

Touching the wound under her thigh, he toggled his head and told her, "She was _my_ Clara and I was _her_ Doctor and the Tardis was our _home_ and the universe was our _life_."

Her fingers fumbled against each other atop her stomach, watching him decide to bandage the smaller wound, and she asked hesitantly, "She was happy though, right?"

"I hope she was," he answered quietly. He moved around the bed and laid at her side, head propped up on his hand, and he told her, "We had adventures and we had discussions and we had rare moments where we simply enjoyed each other's company. Reading books silently to ourselves, her feet constantly at war with my thighs for warmth – she won," his eyebrows lifted, "Of course."

Clara giggled and his body warmed.

Grinning up at her, he went on, "We made a list, jotted around the pages of an old book her mum had given her, of all of the places we went – definitely more than one hundred and one – and if I had it here with me, I could tell you one thing about every single one of those places that she loved. And each one of those things, for as long as I live, will bring a smile to my face with that memory."

"Name one thing," Clara urged softly, shifting down and smiling as he tossed the sheets over her bare legs with a long sigh.

The images flashed in his mind and he told her simply, "The glowing bud of a Riscthus flower."

Her eyes widened for just a moment before asking, "What... what is it?"

Hand coming up, he explained, "It's a flower that blooms only once a year, on a tree you can only find in the Medusa Cascade, that will only grow on the planet of Soriuson." With a grin, his hand twisted, turning up like a flower as he told her, "It's a flower that begins as a purple bud that smells of death until self-pollination, and then it blooms, petals blood red at the start, but curling outward into a brilliant yellow and at the center – at its _heart_ – sits its seed. A seed that glows for just one hour after it's open, hoping for a passing bird or animal to pluck it up and carry it off, either as meal or as trinket, to find it a new home."

The Doctor sighed into the night, glancing up at her face, frozen in a wondrous stare. She was beautiful, he thought to himself, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, seeing the way her eyes took in the movement and then travelled back to him. She was waiting for the reason – for why this particular flower would bring him the memory of Clara and he smiled into her face, tinted blue by the night.

"She spotted it when it was the ugly purple bud, tiny odd nose wrinkled by the smell of it, but it stood at her height and she was curious and as she stood in front of it – not caring that it was staining the very air she breathed – it opened." He gaped slightly and sighed, "As if it saw a beautiful flower and chose to challenge her, it unfurled its petals and glowed – _oh did it glow_ – and her face, lit up in those ruby sparkles flecked with shades of fuchsia... her eyes wide with curiosity." Head shaking, his brow dropped, "No fear, no hesitation, no questions, just pure adoration of this new discovery. Her reward for seeing past the revolting shell was being the first exposed to a heart, seeking the promise of new life."

Clara bit her lip and then she stated, "Did she offer it?"

He smiled and he bowed his head in a long nod. "I explained what it was and she scooped it out tenderly – moreso than would ever be necessary – and we searched for entirely too long for the perfect spot where it could flourish, not far from others of its kind." He laughed. "We planted that seed together, and then we loved in the meadows listening to the wind's song in the trees and we slept naked underneath those stars." The Doctor looked up at Clara and he told her calmly, "You should get some rest."

"Doctor," she called, laying her head to the pillow.

"Yes, Clara," he responded.

She yawned, "If we find your Tardis – could I come away with you?"

Looking over the closed eyes and the calmed features, he whispered, "Always."


	20. Chapter 20

Clara woke to the feel of the bed shifting, the man at her side groaning as he stood and stretched, a small yelp of pain before he turned his eyes to the window out into the bright sunlight. There was a chill in the air and she knew the fire had gone out, she imagined he'd simply fallen asleep beside her and hadn't gone back out to add new logs. For some reason it made her smile as she watched him. His hands came up to grip at his waist on either side and he took several long breaths, as though calculating the day in his head.

What they would have for breakfast?

When would he change her bandages?

How would he argue with her about the antibiotics if she resisted?

There were probably a million little lines running through his head, like computer coding, each processing into multiple answers he could file away for later use – at least that's how she thought he worked. Clara really had no clue. She watched him nod at nothing and then turn, passing her one quick look before he exited the room and she knew he'd seen her open eyes. It only made her more curious. What had he thought about her lying there, watching him? Had he had some memory of waking to Clara watching him think? Did she somehow hurt him, looking so much like her?

She hadn't thought about it.

Of course her face could bring with it so many wonderful memories of distant planets and times they'd shared, but knowing she wasn't the same person – _at least not wholly_ – did that hurt him? Rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling, she listened to toilet flush and then to the clinking that began in the kitchen and then there was silence. She heard the small sniffle and Clara pulled the sheets away from her legs, surprised to find her trousers on, thick grey socks also now covering socks she already had on her feet.

She made her way slowly to the restroom and looked at her face in the mirror. Her skin was pale, sickly, and her hair was a mess, but she forced a smile, turning away from the crooked way her lips refused. She found the Doctor a few moments later just in front of the fireplace, stabbing lightly at it with an iron poker to turn the bits of kindling in the flames, and she approached him, limping to his side before reaching to give his fluff of grey hair a light touch. He rewarded her with a sad smile, not unlike the one she'd just given herself, before he turned away, hiding away his face from her.

And she was left with the same questions.

 _Was that something Clara used to do?_

 _Did it pain him that_ she _did it?_

"Breakfast?" She questioned, her voice sounding weak to her ears.

The Doctor pushed himself to stand and she was suddenly aware of how much taller he was, a fact that she knew amused him because he smirked, looking to her feet. Did Clara wear heels or platforms, she thought with a grin in return. He replaced the hot poker beside the fireplace and clapped his hands together, then let them fall open towards her, his brow rising slightly as he opened his mouth to consider as he glanced to the kitchen.

"Plenty of oatmeal," he suggested, "Pancake batter from yesterday with rehydrated strawberries from the cupboard?" He shrugged, "I'm afraid there aren't a whole lot of options, unless you go non-traditional."

She managed a smile and a small nod of her head, twisting towards the kitchen to begin making her way towards it, feeling him on her heel, knowing his hand was lifting with a question. "Eggs," she stated.

"No eggs," he lamented.

"You don't need actual eggs to make eggs," she turned to tell him.

Clara looked to see him considering it with a confused frown and it made her laugh, a noise that seemed to distract him from his thoughts and bring his attention back to her. And he smiled. He smiled because she'd laughed at his perplexed state and the thought tinged her cheeks pink as he asked, "And how do you propose we make eggs with no eggs."

"Same way you made pancakes with no eggs, you stupid oaf," she teased. "There's a package of dehydrated egg powder in the back of the cupboard," then she narrowed her eyes at him as she reached for the counter to hold it as she twisted back to him, "I thought you read my list."

He shrugged, comfortable grin returning as he scoffed, "Well, to be honest, your handwriting's atrocious and you used a few abbreviations I'm not exactly that skilled in codes to crack."

She bent and flipped the list on the counter towards him and jabbed at it and she watched him crook his neck to read it. Then his head came back, as though he'd had some epiphany and she laughed again, this time muted as she raised a hand to cover her mouth because he looked foolish. Of course he would be, she considered, she expected him to be dangerous – and she supposed in a lot of ways he could be – so of course he wouldn't be, at least not with her.

"Art eggs," he read, "I thought..." he trailed.

"You thought what?" She asked, opening a cupboard and beginning to shift items around.

"Suppose I was used to Clara's lists – school projects with the kids."

She smiled, "School teacher?"

Leaning into the counter, he sighed a long, "Yeah."

"Is that why you were so surprised I was a soldier?" Clara questioned.

He straightened and then gave her a small push, his indication for her to go have a seat while he took care of breakfast. Clara knew he would want to take a walk, as therapy for her leg, but now she needed to rest it, so she lifted both palms in defeat and trudged towards the table, gently dropping into a chair to wait for his answer as he began reading instructions and measuring out the powdered substance while flicking on the stove.

Turning to glance at her, he nodded awkwardly, "Clara could have been a soldier – once a boyfriend made the suggestion she was mine, though the words were probably said more out of anger than justification."

"Was he justified?" Clara asked.

Shrugging, the Doctor stilled, and then he muttered, "At the time, I suppose he might have been." He turned to lift his hand, thumb and forefinger an inch apart as he narrowed an eye and spat, "A little."

She giggled, "Did she take your commands; is that how your relationship started?"

The Doctor began working at the now muddy substance in his pan as he considered the question. Had it been that way? He didn't really think so, but he could see how others might view it. His companions, eager little soldiers under his command. He told her honestly, "From an outside perspective, it might have appeared that way, but it was quite the opposite, but it was really never anything of the sort."

"How do you mean?"

He laughed, "When I met her, the real her – not one of her echoes, but _proper_ Clara – she could have asked for the world and I would have found a way to give it to her. And I think, because of the opportunity I'd given her, because of taking her through time and space and getting her back to her friends and family and her responsibilities like she'd asked, she might have done the same for me. It's always been her and I, fighting back and forth equally, and to some I came off as dominant." He shrugged. "Maybe it was her kindness; maybe it was the patriarchal way most civilizations looked at relationships between men and women... but it was never anything _less_ than _equal_."

The Doctor turned and he watched Clara frown at the table in front of her, her short fingernails scratching lightly against the wood. Plagued by some thought as he stirred the egg substitute into piles of fluffy yellow bits that now looked like eggs and then pulled them off the flames to turn fully to take her in.

"What is it?" He asked roughly, far moreso than he'd intended.

Her smile was automatic as she raised her eyes to look at him. "I'm not _whole_ then, not proper Clara. Just a bit of her that broke off into space." She laughed. "Makes me sound inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, doesn't it."

The Doctor turned back to retrieve two bowls and he scooped the eggs into them, taking them to the table to sit across from her and set the food before them, lying his palms flat before reaching for her hands, now picking anxiously at each other. "Clara..." he started.

She pulled away and her laugh was shaky, stating softly, "You said before, that if I attacked UNIT I would die, you said it with such certainty." She nodded, "It's because of that – because I'm not real."

Straightening in his chair, he shook his head, "No, Clara, it's not because of that, it's entirely not that."

Exhaling roughly in frustration, Clara spat, "Then what? Why am I destined to die? Why's my game rigged in such a way it all but refuses me the right to win?"

He stared into the dark eyes that waited – that demanded – and he slowly nodded, "For the same reason you couldn't pull the trigger on your gun when I came into that room. The same reason you believed me and went looking for the answers they weren't giving you about me, and your son. The same reason you _rescued_ me from a heavily armed military instillation and risked your life bringing me here," his hand waved about.

"I don't..." she began softly before finishing, "I don't understand."

Gesturing at her, he explained sternly, "Somewhere inside of you there's a voice, the _tiniest_ voice in the back of your mind _screaming_ at you to save me and that same voice prevents you from hating me the way they've wanted you to. Hell, it's probably the reason you blew another man to bits in the middle of the road – if it'd _actually been me_ , that day would have been a lot more interesting for UNIT, I'll tell you that." He shook his head. "You've eluded it to it before, you..." he looked away and the smiled, weakly finishing, "That's _her_ voice, that's the part of her that's gone out into the universe with her face, settled into your head to make sure there's someone around, always, to keep me out of trouble."

"But that's not fair, it's taking my will away," she pinched her lips together before asking, "Is that what you came searching for? That little voice in my head?"

"No," he shot, "I told you, I came looking to _save you_ – to save _just one of you_."

" _Good_ then," Clara growled, "You'll save me."

"It would be easier if you weren't hell bent on walking into an active volcano," he grumbled back.

Clara stabbed at her eggs and then pointed her fork at him, but she didn't know what to say, and she watched him huff a laugh and turn away. Angrily amused. Mostly angry because she wasn't understanding something. Clara settled her fork in her bowl and she took a long breath. "It's still your fault."

"What?" He uttered.

Her eyes watered, "My husband, my son, everything that's happened – it's all been leading me here, to helping you." Clara let out one ragged laugh and nodded, "You should have left us alone." She frowned and grabbed the bottle of antibiotics, giving it a quick closing of her eyes – because she thought it was pointless now, the Doctor knew – and then she tapped a pill into her palm, reaching for a glass of water left from the day before to down it. "If you'd have just left me alone, I would have gone on thinking I had killed the Doctor. I would have believed my mission had been over and moved on and that," she looked to the Doctor before picking up her fork, "That would have saved me."


	21. Chapter 21

They walked together in silence through the woods, the Doctor trailing just a few feet behind Clara. She was exerting herself unnecessarily, he knew, forcing herself to take stronger steps, forcing herself to walk faster than she could. Before long he could see the sweat underneath her arms and beginning to dot her back, and he could hear her wheezing breaths, pained with the effort it was taking to continue on at her pace and he frowned, hand coming up to touch the delicate spot at his chest.

He knew what was on her mind: whether or not he ordered the death of her son, somehow he'd cosmically been responsible for it. Though he knew she understood it would have happened either way, because they needed her to hate him just enough to pull the trigger. He watched her struggling now and wondered just who she'd killed, though a part of him had a good idea. There weren't too many people around this time who could convince UNIT they were the Doctor and he certainly wouldn't be cocky enough to walk into a trap.

Smiling at the brunette whose energy was fading, he shrugged.

Maybe he would, _with the right bait_.

"You should stop for a rest; catch your breath," he offered.

"Sod off," she spat back at him without turning.

He raised an arm at her, "Oh, brilliant, language."

Clara slowed, hands coming up to grip at her waist and her head fell back, taking several long breaths before she turned to aim her stare at him. "Don't you _even_ _consider_ telling me to watch my language."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he muttered, hands flipping up quickly before dropping heavily at his sides.

She nodded slowly and then bent forward, and then she crumpled to the ground with a reluctant whimper, but she slapped the Doctor away when he moved towards her. She straightened her leg and he could see the blood soaking the front of the dark trousers she wore, and she lifted the back of her hand to wipe at her forehead before sniffling loudly against tears.

"How far are we from the lake?" She managed in a low voice.

"Not far," he replied softly.

" _Five minutes_ ," she barked. "Five minutes and we keep moving."

"Is this the soldier in you?" He argued, "Unwilling to accept you should probably turn back?"

"What's the point in turning back now?" She growled up at him, her meaning clear.

"That's right then, finish the mission." He looked to the ferocity in her eyes, the redness that tainted them, and he nodded, finding a fallen log to sit on before he stated calmly, "Five minutes then, Captain Palmer."

The name seemed to sting her and she turned away. It was her husband's name, he presumed – he'd been in the military as well. Either that or she was simply angry he'd said her name, her proper name. As though he hadn't the permission, he understood. The Doctor rubbed lightly at his chest and he could feel the ache in his back and through his shoulder – they'd both gone too far on this walk, he knew. Foolish and stubborn.

Both of them.

For some reason, the thought made him smile. "Nothing changes," he sighed.

Clara turned.

"You and I, in all of space and time – no matter the echo or the incarnation – it seems we've always been and will always be the same." He gestured weakly to her and then back at himself, "Nothing changes."

Planting her hands into the rough ground, she lifted herself slightly and pulled herself towards him as he watched, and when she had her back pressed into the log, she took a long breath. Her eyes glanced sideways at his knees and she asked, "Would you want it any other way?"

He shrugged, a small laugh escaping him as he offered, "Sometimes I wish I had been less of a pompous arse, if that's what you're asking."

Clara's head toggled and he could see the hint of a grin on her lips before she stated, "I know it's not really your fault." Her eyes met his for just a moment, "The death of my family – it's not something you could have predicted, or even _known_ about."

"If I could fix it, Clara..." he began honestly.

Her hand came up and she chuckled as she stated, "Rewrite time? For _me_?"

"Why _not_ for you?" He responded softly. His fingers flexed over his right thigh, wanting desperately to stroke through her hair, to offer her some comfort, but he didn't dare chance it – not when she was beginning to open up again after that morning. A _minor_ setback, he considered, wasn't that _always_ the case between them.

One step _forward_ ; two _back_.

Clara's hands came together in her lap and she picked at her nails in that familiar way of hers that made the Doctor's heart skip a beat, and then she tugged at the edge of her jumper, revealing the beginning of her larger scar. She hesitated, but then pulled it up completely, finger trailing over the white line on her skin. "My life meant nothing to me when I did this."

He nodded, noting that she refused to meet his gaze, and he stated, "And then you thought about your mum."

There was a soft humph of a laugh and then her head shifted up and down slowly, "I thought about a lot of things; suppose that's how it goes when you're about to die. You experience your life in rewind and you find all of the little moments you could have changed – all the little moments you would have made _bigger_." She turned to look up at him to tell him, "I've experienced that twice in my life, Doctor."

He stared down at her curiously, waiting, and she turned away.

"My husband..." she began, trying to answer his unspoken question about that _other_ time, and she went silent a moment, mouth working over several ways to explain before she slumped slightly, giving up. When she spoke again, it was not to finish her previous statement, but to start a new one, telling him lightly, "I tried to take my own life, two months after my son's death. All that time trying to make sense of _why_ things happened the way they did and it just seemed pointless – _everything_ did."

"And then UNIT gave you something to focus all of that anger on," he proposed knowingly.

She smiled sadly up at him, "They blamed you for the war."

Shifting towards her, he asked on a hiss, "How was I to blame?"

"You were supposed to usher in an era of peace, they tell people – the Doctor and the Tardis were supposed to make things right," she bowed her head, "And instead you asked for war. You told diplomats and presidents and prime ministers that their efforts were fruitless; you laughed and you whispered in ears and then you disappeared."

" _I did nothing of the sort_ ," he shouted angrily as she jerked in shock, his blood boiling at even the thought, and then he stopped and questioned, "Is this what they told people? Why would they do that?"

"Because you did disappear," she spat at him. "You were supposed to help us find peace and instead you went off in your bloody Tardis and disappeared and guess what – we couldn't find peace on our own!"

He frowned, "And then all military branches started their search for the Doctor."

"Yes."

"Who did you kill?"

Clara looked up at him in confusion, asking lightly, "What?"

His hand waved slightly at her, encouragingly, "He said he was the Doctor."

"Yes," she stated blankly.

"Then who did you kill?" He lifted his hands to gesture at his chest, "I'm sitting right here."

"Dunno, he called me by name, said I was looking for him. Seemed right pleased with himself," she offered quietly.

"Oh," he breathed. Shaking his head, he slumped back on the log, "We were supposed to... and _because of her_... we never... I _never_... I came _here_ instead... and then she took advantage – thought you were looking for me to help." He clapped a hand over his face, dragging it roughly down.

He felt her fingers touch his knee timidly and when he glanced down, she asked on a shrug, "Who?"

"Missy," he stated plainly. "The Master," he continued to her blank stare, "The _Mistress_? But _why_? It makes no sense."

"Sorry," Clara allowed, "I've never heard of them."

His arm shot out in a gesture that made her recoil and he bent in pain at that, that she'd expect him to strike her, and instead he laid his hand to the side of her face, thumb stroking over her cheek, "The man you killed in the street, he was scanning as Gallifreyan – that's why you believed him when he said he was the Doctor."

Swallowing roughly, she nodded and told him, "Yes, and I..."

"You hesitated," he finished, watching the guilty look on her face, "You hesitated because you knew it wasn't me; deep down you knew."

Her eyes welled, "They told me to take the shot – General Wallace reminded me that you were responsible for Charlie's death and the deaths of all those children that day; the deaths of so many people across Europe that you were supposed to help us avoid."

"And you fired because you hoped you were doing the right thing."

Jaw clenched against her question, Clara nodded.

The Doctor answered her quietly, "It was the right thing on that day, Clara – don't _ever_ question it again."

"Who was he?" She asked shakily.

He smiled as much as he could against the sadness in her eyes and then he bowed, his hand slipping to her shoulder before dropping off and returning to his lap. "He was my best friend."

She let out an odd noise of discontent that sounded like an apology and the Doctor glanced down at her to see her turning away, face crumpling slightly, brow knotted in confusion, and then she turned back. Clara looked over his gaunt face and his slumped shoulders and she took a long breath, a considered breath, before quickly pulling herself up onto the log at his side, grunting against the pain of her leg.

The stitching had to have ripped as they were walking, he knew, and he growled in frustration because on top of damage done, she'd moved too fast. He would have to sew her up again when they returned and he would have to do it without sedative and the thought turned his stomach. He turned to ask her why she'd done it, but she was snaking her fingers over his, taking his hand within her cold clammy one, working her fingers through his to hold him securely.

There was a tremor nestled in their palms, one the Doctor couldn't be sure the source of, and he looked back to her, to the tiniest nod she gave him and then he laughed. A quiet laugh that came with his own nod, and he spoke to her on a whisper, "You have _her_ heart."

Shifting into him, she nudged him gently and scoffed, "Maybe _she_ has mine."

He watched her as she avoided his eyes, as she remained staring down at their hands as though it were something familiar to her. The Doctor chanced to lean into her and press a kiss to her head, one she unconsciously leaned into; he heard the quiet giggle she managed to squelch and sighed. She was right – Clara had the heart of a million women scattered through time and space – each with just enough love for him. And, he knew, that was saying a lot.

"Could we start over," he offered.

"Start over?" Clara asked, head coming up to wrinkle her nose at him.

"Hello," he breathed, "I'm the Doctor."

She laughed then, the sadness dripping away as she replied, "Hello, the Doctor, I'm Clara."

"Nice to meet you, Captain Clara Palmer," he told her on a nod.

But she shook her head, a small frown tainting her lips a moment as she bowed, then it shifted away as she began, "Captain Clarice Palmer has been dead for a pretty long time." Looking back up to him, she squeezed his hand and said on a small nod, "I think right now I'd like to be just Clara Oswald again."

He smiled, a genuine smile that stung the cold of his cheeks and he poked at her nose as he replied, "Just Clara Oswald then, we need to get you back to the cabin."


	22. Chapter 22

"How is it you healed so quickly?" The question came on a huffed breath just before they entered the front door, the Doctor holding to the hand Clara had slung around his neck at his insistence halfway back to the cabin. She was limping and he could see on her face that every step pulled at some ache in her leg. Probably a knot in the injured muscles that had been worked too hard too fast.

He smiled down at her, explaining, "After I got shot, I went down like a door, didn't I?"

Clara breathed a laugh, "Yeah, you were pretty out for a while."

"Time Lord tricks," he teased as they pushed in.

They moved towards the couch together and he slowly lowered her onto it, kneeling in front of her to help her work the trousers off before glancing at the dwindling fire. "It's fine," she told him, smiling when he looked back to her, "I'm actually kind of warm right now – it can wait."

"No," he frowned, "It can't."

She sighed when he stood and the Doctor could hear her hissing as she pulled off her bandages, but he continued settling more logs onto the fire, poking at it until it was burning again, and when he turned back, she was peering down at her leg, lips twisted to the side. She understood, he recognized, that her stitching would need to be redone, and when her eyes came up to meet his, they were watered, but resolute. So he skipped over the obvious and went to retrieve the first aid kit, bringing it to set on the ground beside her left foot, opening it to find the needle and thread and hearing the couch groan as she tried to steel herself against the oncoming pain.

"I could sedate you," he offered, touching one of the remaining needles.

Her head was shaking though, and she responded lightly, "We might need it later." Then she grinned, and told him on a laugh, "But thank you for asking this time."

For a moment he thumbed it, considering simply jamming it into her backside like he'd done before, but he closed his eyes and pulled away, stilling his shaking hands. He readied himself for the scream he knew was coming and he hated how she held it in. His eyes focused on gently cutting and tugging out the stitching he'd done before and then he began slowly pulling her skin back together over the pink wound, singed black in places by the laser.

Neither of them said a word for the half hour it took him, but he could hear each long ragged breath she took, interspersed with the sniffles of her tears, trying to remain calm. And the sound of her hands gripping the fabric of the couch wasn't lost on him as he tied off the final strands tightly, letting the needle clatter into one of the compartments in the kit before holding her thigh between his hands, examining his handy work.

It was neat, neater than his last job, and he bent forward to kiss the skin above her knee before letting his forehead drop there, breathing roughly against her leg. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath and now he relaxed his shoulders and simply listened to her calming herself. Her body was vibrating in his palms, shaking with pain and fear and he closed his eyes against it, hating that there was little he could do to calm her. _His_ Clara would be soothed by his presence. She would run a hand over his hair to let him know it was alright and she would beckon him up to sit next to her so she could lean into him until she relaxed. _This_ Clara...

Her fingers tentatively brushed the edges of his hair and his breath stopped.

"I know this is going to sound _absolutely_ ridiculous, but would you mind just sitting here and holding my hand until the adrenaline wears off?"

Her voice wavered, as though she'd been afraid to ask the question, and the Doctor felt her hand shift away as he lifted his head, looking to her reddened eyes before he nodded. "Of course, Clara."

"Not because it's what she would have asked," she mumbled quickly.

He smiled, "No, Clara, because it's what you need."

Her laugh was quiet and shy and she bowed her head as he stood, sitting carefully at her left and offering an open palm to her that she timidly set her hand into. For a moment she stretched her fingers out over his palm, aligning their hands to look down at the way his dwarfed hers, a small breath of a laugh escaping her and he wondered what she was thinking as he looked up at her. Her eyes wore a smile that hadn't been there before and it warmed his hearts just a bit.

Fingers shifting, she gripped his hand and met his glance confidently, telling him, "You're a strange man."

"Oh," he laughed quietly, sliding his thumb onto her wrist to measure her quickened pulse, keeping it held there to gauge her vitals, "That's the thing, Clara – I'm not a _man_."

"An alien," she scoffed, looking down at their hands.

"Quite right," he huffed in feigned offense.

Narrowing her eyes back up at him, she questioned, "Did _she_ see you as an alien?"

Shrugging, he offered, "I suppose she did – it wasn't often I appeared normal."

Clara laughed lightly and she leaned into him, head tilting to rest on his shoulder as she watched the fire and the Doctor's eyes closed, allowing himself to imagine it was _her_. Just her and not this echo. And he realized it wasn't fair; he wondered if she understood that. With a small grin as his eyes opened to look to the flames, he knew she did – she took advantage of it. She was taking advantage of it then, he knew.

"Are you feeling alright?" He asked softly, her pulse still thumping away against his thumb.

He expected her to lie, but she merely shook her head, refusing to look back at him as she told him, "It's not as sharp as when you were doing the stitching, but it stings a bit."

"It'll dull out soon enough."

Her hand squeezed his and she nodded, "I know," then she grinned and twisted her wrist, looking down at his finger to ask, "How am I doing, Doc?"

"A hundred and six beats per minute," he supplied. "Understandably elevated, but not dangerously so."

"I need a distraction," she whispered and her voice tapered off into a nervous laugh he found curious, some thought on her mind with those words and he nudged her, waiting. She blushed almost instantly and he furrowed his brow. "My flatmate..." she began simply before shrugging.

The Doctor tilted towards her and asked, "What about your flatmate?"

"She was pretty good at _distracting_ me," she managed, biting her lip to hide her smile and he knew he wasn't imagining the new stain to her cheeks.

Taking a breath, the Doctor considered the statement and then he asked Clara bluntly, "Well, how did she distract you?" He raised his free hand slightly and suggested, "I could help you."

Licking her lips, Clara shook her head and uttered nervously, "No, _no_ , I don't think you can – not in the same way."

Nodding he accepted her answer, and then posited, "She was a good friend then?"

Bowing her head bashfully, she sighed, "She was amazing – I never gave her enough credit for all she put up with for me." Her head came up and she gasped, "Oh... _oh my stars_." She turned her eyes to the Doctor and her voice was barely audible as she realized, "UNIT probably went to our flat; they probably interrogated her... they could have..."

The Doctor could feel her pulse quickening, a hundred and thirteen, then a hundred and nineteen, then a hundred and twenty two, and he wrapped his hand around her wrist, shaking his head and assuring her, "They wouldn't want to draw too much attention to you at this point – they might have gone by to do a check, but your flat mate poses no credible threat..."

She sat up, "Doctor, you don't know UNIT very well, do you?"

He stared, then surmised, "At this point, maybe I don't know much of anything very well, do I?"

Twisting out of his grasp, she buried her face in her hands a moment, then swiped at her tears and smiled, nodding to tell him, "You're right – she's not a threat to anyone." With a shrug, she spoke again, and he knew it was to herself, "Caroline's fine, she's just fine."

The Doctor watched as she took several long breaths, her mind preoccupied with the fate of her friend, so he began quickly, "She seems fairly important to you - would you tell me about her?"

Clara laughed and turned to look at the sincerity in his eyes and it stopped her for a moment, considering him; understanding he was trying to help her, and she nodded. "We met at a park – I was out just sort of in a daze, trying to reconcile... your death, I suppose." She smiled apologetically because she knew now she'd killed his friend, "And she told me she'd draw me for a tenner so she could have lunch." Picking at her fingers, she chuckled to herself, "Then she spent five minutes bumbling over an apology because she hadn't realized I'd been crying and we ended up spending the afternoon making fun of patrons in the park."

"Not very mature," the Doctor offered.

Nodding, Clara smiled, "No, it wasn't, but I wasn't crying anymore."

"Why was that?"

She sighed, "Because suddenly I wasn't thinking about death and about war and about killing _targets_ – I was just thinking about how silly everything was and how ridiculous people were. I was laughing," she ended on a shrug, thinking about the woman back at her flat and how very worried she knew she'd be. "I've never had many friends, the few I had during my schooling left, or they enlisted and were sent off and I didn't see them again – or they changed. We all changed after we had a full understanding." She looked at the fire, "You think you know, and then you hold a gun in your hand; you think you know, and then you stand over a corpse you put on the ground."

"Caroline helped you see life again," he suggested.

Her smile was automatic and bright, brighter than any the Doctor had seen on her face, and her head shifted slightly in agreement, "She told me she'd decided to study art in Europe – said she'd take the risk to learn from the best, but I knew she was just running from home. Somehow this war torn country was better than home." She paused to take a breath. "That says a lot."

"You took her in," the Doctor stated with a grin.

Clara _would_.

She reached out to offer her wrist and the Doctor took it, finding her pulse again as she told him, "I had a spare bedroom in my flat – it'd sat empty for far too long – and I offered it to her for whatever she could pay me, so long as she studied and worked. And she did." She laughed, "She brought almost nothing with her. Clothes and too many insane hats and these onesie sleep suits... the sort you would buy for an infant, but adult sized, all sorts of animals." Clara's tongue settled between her lips a moment, thinking about it. "I was busy a lot of the time at UNIT, but we managed to be friends. More than, really. She accepted my faults without question and she tried to comfort me the best she could and I didn't know how to return that properly. I tried, I just know I didn't go about it the right way. I was afraid to go through it all again and have it end badly again..."

"You never told her you loved her," the Doctor understood. He watched the way her eyes came up guiltily and he thumbed her wrist, feeling the calm pulse there as he stated, "You call her a distraction because it's easier than admitting that you love her."

"And now I'll probably never see her again," Clara replied, swallowing roughly.

"I would argue that she knew," he smiled, "But we've had that argument."

Nodding, Clara eyed him, but then asked meekly, "But she knew, right?"

The Doctor watched the worried look settle into her eyes and he sighed, reaching to hold her hand tightly within his to tell her, "When this is all done, you make sure to tell her."

She laughed and then turned away on a sniffle, turning back only to ask, "How am I doing, Doc?"

"Eighty nine beats per minute," he told her quietly. "Caroline succeeds again."


	23. Chapter 23

Clara rested for two days on the Doctor's insistence – how would she ever get better otherwise, he argued, if she never sat still. She'd only smiled, knowing he was worried about her. The rest of that evening was spent in relative silence, but she knew it drove him mad. Not in the sense that he _couldn't_ sit still himself, but that he _needed_ to explore. Clara fell asleep on that notion with a grin on her lips and she woke the next morning to tell him softly, " _I have to rest, but you, go. Go on_."

Lanky body straightening with a sort of excitement, Clara watched him nod, as if unsure, and she waved him off and told him to have at the woods as though they were on some strange alien planet. The idea seemed to entice him and he moved quickly through the front door after making her promise she wouldn't do anything foolish while he was out. Clara trusted him to return in one piece; the Doctor trusted Clara to take care of herself.

He went out during the first day and returned for meals with stories as they ate. Mostly how he thought maybe the air would be warming because the birds told him so – a thought that, at that moment, Clara had found hilarious.

" _Did they put the flowers in your fluff of hair_?" She'd asked him.

He'd smiled, a genuine showing of glee as he touched them and responded, " _Yes, do you like them_?"

Thinking him an idiot, she responded, " _Yes, I do_ ," anyways and blushed at the look he gave her, as though pleased she approved.

On the first day, the Doctor also found a deer and followed him to a stream that was closer than the lake, a find he was monumentally proud of. It would be easier for them both for a few days, she knew, because even though he seemed to be healing quicker than she was, Clara could see that he still ached. And then he brought the deer home at evening on the second day, arguing with him as they entered the cabin. Clara was lying on the couch, a book in her hands that the Doctor had found in a suitcase, and she shouted at them both. It was more out of shock than anything, she'd heard him grumbling along just before the door opened, and then she heard the odd sounds of the deer's reply.

"You speak _deer_?" She'd questioned, once the two had seemingly quieted down. Some argument between them about her, she supposed, and her surprised shrieking.

The Doctor smiled and looked down at the deer neighing beside him, then said with a shrug, "Doe eyes, that's funny."

"Doctor!" Clara spat.

He turned and smiled, "Yes, Clara, I speak deer."

She gestured, "Well, get it out of here."

"It's about to come down outside; I offered him safe refuge until it passes!" He called back.

"You offered our home to a deer?" She asked, and then she turned away, realizing what she'd said, and muttered, "I guess it's fine. Until the rain passes."

It hadn't been lost on the Doctor either and he closed the door, ushering the deer towards a space in front of the fire and Clara watched as it sniffed the ground, then carefully laid, a long grunt she didn't understand had been it's thanks. The Doctor stepped silently towards the kitchen and she knew it was to make food, and there'd been a bag, she thought, tucked underneath his arm as he'd entered. He hadn't kept it a secret; he'd simply not mentioned it. Though she'd yelled at him about the deer, she knew, maybe she didn't want to know about the contents of the bag.

Clara pushed up on the couch and tried to peek, but he had his back turned to her, hunched over something on the stove. With a pout, she flipped the thick throw off her bare legs and gingerly set her feet to the ground, standing and limping her way towards him. She definitely felt better than she had two days ago, but her wounds were still sore. They would be for a while longer, she knew. It was possible, she understood, that she could remain with a limp for the rest of whatever she had left of a life.

A thought she immediately dismissed.

"No," he scoffed as she stepped up next to him and bent around him to look to the pot in front of him. He twisted and held her by one arm and gently turned her, waving towards the couch with one hand, "Go lay down. We had made an agreement, at least two full days bed rest."

"But, what are you making?" she whined as she trudged a few steps away and turned back.

He rubbed at his temples, but she could see his grin, and he lifted his head, telling her, "It's a surprise – part of Rudy's thanks for letting him spend a few hours here with us."

"Rudy?" Clara questioned, wrinkling her nose.

The deer called out.

Thumbing back towards him, she hissed, "The deer's name is Rudy?"

Nodding, the Doctor waved both hands at her and argued, "Go, rest, _heal_!"

She laughed, and raised her hands in defeat, moving back to the couch to sit while watching the deer curl up for a nap as the thunder clapped in the distance. Clara waited patiently, occasionally trying to smell the air as she turned the pages of the book, and eventually there was a sweetness wafting up into her nostrils. A fruity aroma she couldn't place that made her turn towards the man still working over the stove. He'd put something in the oven a bit ago and Clara's stomach grumbled as she gave up on the book, too distracted by whatever he was doing.

The oven opened and Clara breathed, "Bread?"

She heard him chuckle.

"But how!" Clara called, hearing him working at bowls and silverwear.

He moved into the living space and handed her a plate and she looked down at the slices slathered in a dark reddish purple sauce that smelled of berries, a small cluster of assorted nuts beside, and Clara set the plate in her lap to pick up a nut to sniff it as the Doctor explained, "I told him we'd been surviving on pancakes and soup and he graciously offered his knowledge of the edible plant life in the area and from there it's just a matter of separating off the yeast and a little jiggery pokery..."

"And bread," Clara hummed, interrupting him and bringing a warm slice to her lips to bite. She couldn't help the moan that escaped her. They were wild blackberries, the sort she could remember going to pick with her mum as a child. They were the kind that brought back simple memories of times she thought the world might right itself.

" _These, mummy_?"

" _Yes, those, Charlie_."

" _Mummy, are you're_ sure _we can eat them_?"

Swallowing a second bite almost whole, Clara turned to look at the Doctor. He was watching her with a saddened expression, his eyes reddened, as if he understood it had brought back those glimpses into her past and he worried he'd done wrong. She smiled and admitted, "When I was a child, my mum and I used to go out on picnics and pick wild blackberries and as soon as Charlie could eat them, we'd do the same." She bowed her head bashfully, then asked, "Did you ever do that with your children – pick the berries of Gallifrey?"

The Doctor laughed and his head tilted back before he shrugged and then supplied, "Not often, but yes. And then with my granddaughter when she was able to walk about. They had something _like_ a blackberry on Gallifrey." He rubbed at his nose with a long forefinger and told her, "She would cram as many as she could into her mouth, drooling blue juice onto her dresses while laughing at her grandmother's chastising." He sighed and Clara could hear the sadness in that simple sound.

Clara watched him, lost in those thoughts, and she frowned then, asking, "What's happened to them?"

"Lost, long ago, like so many other things," he told her with a lifting of his brow.

"You've lost a lot in your lifetime, haven't you," she stated quietly.

"Two thousand years," he began softly, "One tends to lose too much."

Nodding, Clara ate her bread and berries slowly, watching him as he did the same, each bite coming with an old thought, she knew – it wasn't that different for herself. She remembered Charlie's first taste of smashed blackberry at seven months old, sitting in her lap in a field and how his head had shaken against the initial flavor. Her grandmum had laughed heartily, clapping her old hands before caressing the boy's cheeks as he accepted a second small serving. She could see his small stained teeth on a spring day as they sat grinning, each with a pile in front of them, Clara's mother laughing nearby. They were the simple days she wished she could bring back for every mother; the days she thought about when she'd transferred to UNIT.

Days that could be enjoyed for silly smiles and happy songs.

Days filled with rambunctious laughter and games.

Days when you didn't worry about your children dying.

Or growing up to be sent off to war... _to die_.

"What was the war like on your planet, Doctor?" Clara asked the Doctor as she began her second slice. She'd read about it in his file – that there had been a war and that he had ended it. He'd destroyed Gallifrey and everyone on it and around it, or so the file said.

Clara questioned that now.

Looking to him in the silence, she could see his eyes had glossed over and she knew that look well – it was the look of soldiers who had returned from battle, lost to the terrors they'd seen. It was the look of Officers who commanded young men and women and returned home without them. Clara had seen that look on her own face too many times to admit and she sat up straighter, reaching out to touch his wrist, to slip her fingers around his and watch as he released a breath and looked to their hands as they locked together.

What was war like, she thought to herself; it was a _stupid_ question.

She _knew_.

But he nodded and allowed, "Have you ever encountered a Dalek, Clara?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "They come from time to time, we take them out as quickly as possible knowing it sends a clear message to any others hovering up in space – we've learned how to cut through their metal and while it infuriates them, it also intimidates them because it's a vulnerability they hadn't expected us to work out."

He turned to her curiously and then smiled, "Go humans."

It should have felt like a compliment, but she frowned. "I'm sorry."

"War is always terrible," he agreed. "And it was no different on Gallifrey." He nodded. "I locked it away for safekeeping, I know that now, and one day I'll be able to return, but I fear the anger and hatred that had festered on that planet because of the war will have done it no better than the Dalek invasion – they still invaded, really, just not with tangible weapons."

"I'm sorry," Clara stated again, simply, because there was nothing else to say.

They exchanged an awkward set of smiles, both understanding the other because they'd both been through it and they'd both hoped to do the same – end it with one terrible decision. Clara's thumb passed softly over his skin and she managed a nervous laugh as the clap of thunder rattled the cabin around them, startling the deer awake to glance around.

Licking her lips, she asked hesitantly, "Would you mind staying out here with me tonight?"

"Scared of a little thunder," he teased, but his voice was barely there. He was looking to the desperation in her eyes, knowing it wasn't the weather she feared. Gripping her hand tighter, the Doctor nodded and then tilted his head towards the deer, "Promised him I'd keep him company anyways."

Clara laughed and then she looked back at her plate, at the half eaten bread and jam and the few spare nuts scattered about and she looked back at the Doctor – so intent on caring for her in spite of her initial hatred towards him. So intent on letting her know she was loved, even though she wasn't his to love. She released his hand hesitantly and picked up her bread, taking another bite to ignore the pull he was having on her heart. Pretending it was simply a call through time and space, some remnant of a deceased woman in his past and not the fact that maybe... _just a little bit_... she was falling in love with him.


	24. Chapter 24

The Doctor thought he'd never see that look in those eyes again. And he knew exactly what that look meant because he'd seen it in his Clara's eyes enough. She was tricking herself – the way his Clara used to, the way she didn't think he knew she was doing – she was telling herself she wasn't falling for him. He used to think it was a good idea. In the first days, when he wasn't sure if she was a trick or a trap, he found himself doing the same, worried that admitting to himself he fancied her would yield terrible results.

He convinced himself she would mean his death.

How wrong he'd been.

Everything Clara had ever done had been to save his life, to give him life, and he was hit with a new wave of sadness as he watched her turn away because he'd missed out on so much by withholding from that love. By not telling her she didn't have to trick herself any more than he had to trick himself. Except now he sat mere inches from her echo telling himself to do the same. Because it wasn't fair to her.

He bowed his head because he realized he'd resigned himself to her death. If she wanted to take on UNIT, he would help her, but he knew it would mean her death. And he would lose her all over again because this Clara, despite the clear differences, was so very much like his Clara at heart. He imagined without the war, she would have floored him upon their meeting... though not with a stun gun, he thought with a small grin. One she noticed and narrowed her eyes at curiously.

"I'm thinking about her," he told her calmly. "And I'm thinking about you."

She nodded and he took their plates back to the kitchen while she pondered his statements and when he returned, she looked up at him to ask, "How do I compare?"

The question was playful, but there was a twinge of worry to her voice – as though his approval of her truly meant something to her, and she understood how much his Clara had meant to him. So he looked her over, ignoring the small noise of amusement from the deer, and then he twisted and sat carefully, not wanting to jostle her leg. He looked to the fire and he could feel her eyes on him, waiting for his answer.

What could he tell her, he considered. How could he explain what he felt – how she made him so happy and so sad simultaneously? How he felt guilty for treasuring the times she held his hand? How he'd cried, out in the woods over Clara, and had been gifted with the flowers to make him feel better... because Clara would like them? How his heart broke when this Clara, even though she thought him ridiculous, did? How he'd watched her sleep the first night she'd been unconscious and wished he could hold her? How that made him run until he'd reached the lake and had bellowed out into the night?

"You're Clara," he told her simply.

She stared, a bit confused, her heart skipping a beat, and then she blinked and laughed, replying, "Of course I'm Clara."

He turned to look at her and he shook his head, speaking softly, "I'm not sure you understand – you're Clara, you're all Clara. There is no comparison."

Smirk growing, she teased, "That's not true and you know it."

With a shrug, he allowed, "I suppose the only difference is how well I get to know you." His hands flipped to lay palm side up on his lap. "I'd been travelling with my Clara for years, I've known you for days."

 _And yet you give me that look_ , she thought to herself.

The tapping of rain against the roof turned both their eyes up and Clara breathed, "I really hope this is well constructed."

Gesturing up, the Doctor told her, "I checked it while you were out; it's sturdier than it needs to be. Should hold up just fine through this storm."

The deer grunted appreciation.

"You checked the roof," Clara repeated, then she shifted back and asked, "What else did you do during the time you'd rendered me unconscious?"

He ignored the bite to her tone because he could see, out of the corner of his eye, that the smirk was still nestled on her lips comfortably. "I read, I took walks, I made a stack of firewood. I tended to our wounds. I kept the cabin clean. I counted stars and made friends with insects and mostly tried not to go insane."

"Does this make you insane?" Clara questioned. "Being held up in a house?"

"The term Cabin Fever exists for humans for a reason... I'm not human, but the concept still applies."

"And you had all of time and space at your disposal," she pointed out, fingertips flailing out comically. "Standing still on Earth must be exhausting."

He glared. "You're teasing."

"Oh, no, I'm dead serious," she responded sternly.

Smirk. _Still_. There.

The Doctor shifted in his seat and he smiled at her, "You're enjoying this, knowing I'm suffering just a bit being stuck here – if you knew what you were missing, you'd be a lot more glum than you've been."

"I've been an absolute delight," she breathed.

He scoffed.

Then she chuckled, head dropping to cover her face with a curtain of dark hair. Genuinely pleased for his company, he knew, and her ability to ruffle his feathers. Still so very in control, an echo and a few hundred years removed, he thought as he closed his eyes and tilted his head back to listen to the small amused breaths that escaped her. He moved to stand, but her hands came out to wrap around his arm, holding him to the space beside her with a loud laugh. One that stole his air and pained his hearts.

"I'm sorry," she told him on a bob of her head, "I'm sorry, Doctor, tell me – what would I be missing?"

Staring into her, trying to look annoyed, he sighed.

But she held tightly to him and asked kindly, "Where _would_ you take me, Doctor, if we could jump in your Tardis right now and go?"

He glanced to the door, the thought tickling a spot in the back of his mind. If they could just jump in the Tardis and go he would take her everywhere. Everywhere beautiful and magical and wonderful. He would take her to see stars and moons and comets and planets and things that hadn't even been classified on Earth yet. He would take her to the beginning of time and the start of this galaxy and the edge of the ever expanding universe just to watch it reaching into the vacuum of space.

Eyes watering, he chanced to reach up and push her hair behind her ear, watching the way she smiled involuntarily at the motion, turning her head slightly into his hand. He would take her to jungles to find new life and deserts to discover new civilizations and oceans to reach new depths. He would take her to all of Clara's most beloved places, and then all of his, and he would scratch all of them off of a list before making a new one just to be able to ask, " _Which is your favorite_?"

On a sigh, he told her, "I would take you home." They looked into each other for a while, until he shook himself free of her gaze and brought a hand up to rub at his temples before wiping over his face and uttering nervously, "I'm sorry, that was..."

"Not meant for me?" She questioned.

His skin burned with embarrassment – how could he admit it was? It was for any of them, if they chose it. He shook his head, and then offered her a sad smile, "I was going to say it was forward. Inappropriate, probably."

"It was nice," she told him quietly.

The pop of lightning striking nearby startled her and the Doctor watched her as she glanced up and around, knowing she was worried about a strike on the cabin and how they would fare if it went up in flames around them. They'd be fine, he knew. As long as they stuck together they'd be just fine. Turning away, he doubted there was as much truth to that statement as he hoped. Obviously there wasn't – Clara wasn't fine, she was dead.

He laughed, but it was hollow, and he knew she'd noticed because her attention zipped to him, eyes looking him over, mind wishing she could just ask him, but she didn't feel she had the right. Glancing up, he nodded and then stated simply, "Rest."

But she shook her head to reply, "I've been resting all day," then she asked timidly, "Tell me about yours."

He gestured, "Well, I brought a deer home, his name is Rudy."

Clara laughed.

"Picked nuts and berries, told him about what happened and what you plan to do."

"Rudy?" She questioned.

The Doctor nodded, "We had a discussion about how to live in the woods indefinitely – says he's done fairly well for himself for several years now – and..."

"Indefinitely..." Clara trailed, voice lifting in a sort of question.

With a shrug, the Doctor supplied, "Obviously we wouldn't, but if we wanted to, it's not entirely out of the question."

"You and me?" She posited.

He huffed, "No, me and Rudy. _Of course_ you and me."

"But that would be _ridiculous_ ," she laughed nervously. "Living out our lives in the woods in this cabin – I mean, you're two thousand you said? And you don't age."

He looked to her and realized – it was an idea she could _consider_. His hearts thumped and he swallowed against the strange feeling in his chest before he laughed and turned away. Watching her age and wither away from him... it would be better than watching her die at the hands of UNIT in a hail of bullets and lasers and whatever else they threw at her.

"I'm not sure I would last so long without my travels," he told her, but he knew it was a lie. He'd survived 300 years on Trenzalore with just the adventures of a very human community.

She shifted next to him and then stood, out of anxiety more than a need to stand, he knew. Because she _was_ considering it – and it was frightening her more than dying. The Doctor watched her approach the deer and hold out a hand to let him smell her before she reached her palms towards the flames to warm them, and then she limped away to the bathroom, her hands held tightly together in front of her. He knew that stance and he pushed off the couch, looking to the hallway to where the door closed and he glanced at Rudy, who snorted at the fire.

"She's troubled," the deer explained.

"You have no idea," the Doctor sighed in response.


	25. Chapter 25

With her breath held tightly in her chest, Clara bit back against the tears threatening her eyes as she gripped the sink, and then she reluctantly looked up at herself. The woman who stared back was no less angry or sad than she'd been just days ago, but she was different and it took her a moment to realize what it was.

She smiled when she realized it was simply _health_. The Doctor had made her sleep; he'd made her rest; he'd made her take her pills, and he'd made her eat her food. No one had taken care of her in _that_ way in so long she'd forgotten what it looked like on her. Her skin was no longer the color of dreary skies and her eyes were no longer marred with dark circles and her lips were no longer pale. There was a touch of pink to her cheeks and the more she stared the rosier they became as she calmed herself down... as she _allowed herself to look_.

Clara hadn't truly taken herself in in years. The face that stared back at her seemed a far cry older than the woman she'd watched make faces at a toddler held in her arms, but she was closer to that face than the one who sadly turned away in disgust.

Because of _him_.

Her stomach sat warm with berries and bread and her heart pounded rapidly in her ears because whether or not they'd been jokes, he'd offered her a way out twice already. He'd offered her the stars and he'd offered her a home and she blinked to let her tears fall heavily over her cheeks because she wanted nothing more than to take it. Clara wanted nothing more than to walk back into that room and tell him she wanted to run away with him because life had stolen that from her – the ability to even consider an alternative to the life she was living.

To the hatred and the boiling blood and the death.

And he'd given her a spark of hope that Tom had wounded.

He'd given her a spark of hope that Charlie's death had seemingly obliterated.

"Doctor?" She called.

"Yes, Clara," he answered immediately.

She exhaled and bowed her head, fingers gripping the sink on either side of her because either he'd been just outside the door waiting for her, or he'd rushed across the room. She thought back on Tom and how they'd talked a hundred times about disappearing to another country or disappearing into the country, and she thought about the way her chest had filled with butterflies the day he'd told them they were going. And slowly that feeling fluttered through her again as she turned towards the door and pulled it open to see his concerned face, staring down at her.

On a nod, she asked, "How long until I'm fully healed?"

His shoulders sagged slightly and she understood why – he thought she was resolving herself to start planning towards destroying UNIT. It wasn't an idea that had gone altogether, but she could feel it fading from her heart. She watched his fingers twist into each other as he wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes to the ceiling to calculate in his mind before answering.

"Two weeks, possibly less, but the limp might remain."

She smiled, she knew that.

The Doctor scratched at the back of his head and pondered quietly, "Why do you ask?"

"I want to tell you about my husband," she offered, voice wavering as she watched him calm to look down at her sadly – did he not want to know? Did he already know? Was he simply trying to work out the _why_ behind it? She knew he was highly intelligent; it was the main warning they gave her at UNIT about him.

" _Manipulative intelligence, a bit like you, Captain_ ," she could hear Wallace grunting.

Stepping back, the Doctor gestured towards the living room and Clara scratched at the back of her wrist tensely as she moved past him and carefully sat back on the couch. He didn't join her immediately and it frightened her, because she knew he was scared of what this conversation would tell him, and why she wanted to have it now, and Clara looked to him when he finally rounded the couch and settled at her side with a look of apprehension on his face. He merely nodded slowly, ready to accept what she had to say.

"I met Tom at University," she began, clearing her throat to give herself volume, "He was studying History and I was studying English and we both entertained the thought of becoming teachers, except we were both already determined to enlist in the military – at least for a time." She nodded to herself. "It was always supposed to be a temporary thing. A few years to honor our fathers, because both had died in battles when we'd been younger, and then we'd start families and try to find some normalcy in all of this chaos."

"But that never happened," the Doctor interrupted sadly.

Clara's brow furrowed and she shook her head, "No, it never quite happened."

She expected him to ask her a question, but instead he sat patiently, waiting for her to continue, so she nodded and said, "We started dating, and then we moved in together, and then we got married. We graduated and went straight into war and maybe we convinced ourselves it wouldn't be so bad. It'd been so good," she wrinkled her nose at the Doctor, "You know?"

He smiled weakly.

"You get used to thinking the world might fall apart around you and then you meet someone who holds it up with you and you think it'll be ok. Everything will work out." Clara picked at her fingers in her lap. "We started off alright, though he was more determined to rank than I was, and then the bombings started. Russians, then Germans, sometimes planes would rain down out of the sky from China and we'd come home every night in a sort of daze, holding tight to each other because it got to a point where we were the only thing that made sense in the world.

The Doctor nodded when she looked to him, some understanding fluttering across his face.

"And then Tom stopped making sense."

He looked to her.

"He became colder; he became distant." Her hands twisted. "Instead of telling me it would all pass, he would ask me how many I killed and I thought that was his way of dealing with it – people find strange ways to cope with the pain of it all." Her laughter was hesitant before she allowed, "I slept, restlessly, but it seemed easier than being awake. Sometimes I read, but my mind was so frazzled I couldn't concentrate on anything without working out some battle plan, or thinking of some new evasive maneuver for the next day. I mean, I had soldiers under my command."

"Did he die in a battle?" The Doctor asked, and he immediately frowned because her body seemed to cave in as a small smile played on her lips, as though she wished it were that simple.

Inhaling deeply, she responded quietly, "You could say he did."

The Doctor could see her hands trembling now and he reached to take hold of them. Stilling them in her lap while she chuckled to herself and he allowed, "You don't have to tell me if this pains you, Clara."

"I didn't realize it at the time, or I rationalized it away, but he was abusing me," she nodded, "And then one day it was like something inside had finally snapped and he was normal again – he was Tom."

Breath held, the Doctor watched her eyes glaze over and he braced himself because he knew the abuse wasn't the worse of her tale and he knew it would hurt him to hear. He gripped her hands within his and turned towards her and nodded, uttering her name on a whisper.

"People come out to these cabins to die, Doctor," she explained. "They call it Suicide Holiday."

He glanced around, understanding finally why the cabinets had been stocked and the closets had been filled when they arrived. Listening to her detail how it was one final act of trickery, as though a couple or a family were truly going off on Holiday for a time, his eyes closed, hearing her say quietly, "And Tom said we could get away."

"He went to a cabin to kill himself," he sighed.

She plucked her hands from his shyly and began, "We drove out to a beautiful place on a lake where I thought we were leaving it all behind and he asked me to change into a dress – I hadn't worn a dress in so long – and when I emerged he shot me." Clara tugged on the oversized jumper she wore to expose the scar just between her breasts, the one he now bore a twin to, and she continued as she released her hold on the collar, "He figured I was dead, or dying, and he shot himself once through the temple. Left most of his brain all over the kitchen, but I imagine there wasn't much left because he hadn't checked the other cabins, and one was occupied by a family on actual holiday, and somehow he'd missed my heart."

"Clara..." he sighed.

Her watery eyes turned to look at him. "He didn't know I was pregnant." She laughed and shrugged, "Neither did I. I blamed all the symptoms on stress from the job, and from him." Brow falling, she told him, "And when I woke in the hospital, I wished I were dead; I wished he'd succeeded because I didn't know how I was going to..." Clara swallowed roughly. "My mum told me not to make any decisions until I had calmed. She cared for me and comforted me and when Charlie was born, she offered to take him for me." She laughed. "She would raise her grandchild as her own to save me some pain."

The Doctor smiled then, "But he was yours."

Clara took a breath, one in which her pride swelled, and she stated firmly, "He was _absolutely_ mine." She reached for the Doctor's hands and she raised them to her temples, her invitation for him to search her mind to see him and he cradled her head in his palms, fingertips giving her hairline gentle strokes as he closed his eyes and she told him, "He was everything good that was left of Tom and I promised him I would give him a better world." Her voice broke as she added, "I promised him I would be the best mum."

The Doctor could see the newborn vividly in her mind, his small body still slightly moist with amniotic fluid and blood the towel hadn't wiped off, skin flaked white in spots, head full of dark hair. He gave an angry cry and she held him to her, hands soothing him as doctors and nurses worked to sever the umbilical cord, to clean and stitch the woman oblivious to the commotion.

He saw the baby who looked up at her from a crib, his toothless gaping mouth turning up into an excited smile as his legs pumped, ready to be lifted into her arms. Clara swung him around a room painted a light teal, decorated in silly monkeys and lions, and a giraffe chart sat against a wall for a time she could measure his growth on it. " _How is my big boy today_?"

The woman in front of him laughed at the memory, seeing Charlie bow his head and chew a finger, gnawing on words that weren't words before he laid his cheek to her shoulder and hugged her tightly while she rubbed his back. And then he grew, pulling himself up on a coffee table and slapping at the magazines that sat atop it gently, babbling up at her where she sat on the couch engrossed in the news.

" _Hi, Mummy_!"

His words had been sharp and Clara jumped, hands coming to rub her temples before she gave him a tired laugh and responded, " _It's time for bed, Charlie – for you and mummy_."

And then he grew again. His hair was shaggy around his head, thick and dark like his mother, but he looked up at her with eyes like green-tinged oceans. He flipped through a book and jabbed a finger down, " _Mummy, bird_!"

" _Yes, sweetheart, that's a bird_."

He made a small sound of surprise and glanced up again with a giggle and a shy, " _I like birds_."

"Clara," the Doctor tested, "Why are you showing me this?"

"I want you to know him; I want you to know me before all of this madness," she told him sadly. "And I want to show you how he died; I want you to understand me, Doctor."


	26. Chapter 26

There were a set of soft tugs on the bed sheets and then the tiny familiar grunts of effort. The bed bounced delicately and Clara could hear the small giggles Charlie tried to hold in as he crawled up towards her, flopping down beside her to continue chuckling. A gentle finger touched her cheek, then her nose, and then drew a circle on her forehead before he pulled her bottom lip down slightly and she opened her mouth quickly, pretending to try to bite his finger as he recoiled and squealed. Then she sighed and looked at him, lying across from her.

He was holding a teddy bear to his chest – Raggy, because her mum had called it a _Raggedy Bear_ when Clara had let Charlie choose it at a store – and he wore a sleepy grin. His dark hair was disheveled and she looked it over, considering a cut as he sighed, drawing her attention back to his eyes.

"Hi, mummy," he told her simply.

"Hello, my Charlie," she responded, knuckle brushing his cheek as he smiled.

The words might as well have been their ' _I love you'_ , for the boy didn't quite know the relevance of the actual words. Clara had a hard time saying them to anyone. Even her son. They brought back too many painful memories of a man she tried hard to forget. She chose to show her son love in other ways. In quiet moments they shared; in _feelings_ rather than _words_. They sighed together and then laughed in unison before Charlie rolled to drop himself off the bed and rush towards the kitchen for breakfast.

During the car ride to the daycare, they sang silly children's songs Clara played from a CD, and she glanced back occasionally to see him flopping Raggy about, a steady grip on the old bear so he wouldn't fall on a turn or a bump, and as she lifted him up out of his seat, he dropped the bear down in his place. _To keep mummy safe_ , he always said, because Charlie knew his mother worked for the military; Charlie knew how dangerous her job could be.

He was three years, five months, and seventeen days old.

And he knew any minute his mother could die.

Clara carried him into the building and she made her way towards his class, afraid he might have fallen asleep on her shoulder, except he was gripping her tightly. His legs wrapped around her waist just as they reached the door and she pulled him back to see his small face fighting a frown.

Fingers running through his thick bangs to push them from his eyes, she asked quickly, "Charlie, are you alright?"

"I just miss you when you're away, mummy," he responded, voice barely there. As though he might be on the verge of tears, and Clara's heart broke to hear it that way.

She shook her head and smiled, "Only a few hours, remember? Then grandmum will be by to pick you up and we'll all go to the park in the evening, watch the sun set together – would you like that?"

He brightened, but only slightly, and he nodded, letting her pull him free from her to set him on the ground, pushing the door open so he could greet his friends. Children, Clara thought with a sigh as she watched them exchange hugs and rush towards their toys, would never _not_ be beautiful to her. She gave the attendant a wave and then she was off, driving the few blocks to the base where she straightened her uniform over her body as she entered the building and saluted a General before making her way to her office.

It was a quiet morning – that's how she always remembered it. Maybe it seemed that way to her in her hindsight because of the loudness that proceeded it; maybe it just _had_ been silent. There hadn't been any warnings and there hadn't been any meetings or drills or alarms. No warnings of any kind. Just her door slamming open at half past ten, an exasperated young woman with bloodshot eyes staring in at her, mouth working over the right way to deliver the news.

"Clara," she stated simply, and she knew. Her stomach dropped because she should have addressed her as Lieutenant Palmer, but instead she got just her name, and then, "There's been an incident. You should... you should get your things."

"What incident?" She asked boldly, grabbing her bag to sling over her shoulders as she stood to follow the young woman.

"There've been several attacks," she started slowly as they moved swiftly through the halls towards the fleets of vehicles, "The Daycare..." she began.

Clara's feet froze, along with her heart, and she stopped, head shaking as she shouted, "What about the daycare?"

The woman responded on a nod, "They've bombed the daycare."

She stared into the face that watched her nervously, and she felt her body run cold and hot simultaneously as her head swam warmly, her mouth opening to utter simply, " _Charlie_ ," before she broke into a run.

Behind her, the woman was calling out to her, but her voice faded behind the pounding of Clara's heart in her ears. She could hear the blood pulsing through her veins and the stomping of her boots against the ground as she made it down four flights of stairs and out the front door and around the corner. Her chest felt as though it might explode as she tore into streets, jeeps honking and swerving, and she pushed several new cadets to the ground just before exiting the front gates and rushing towards the plumes of smoke now darkening the skies.

"No," she moaned, " _No, no, no, no_."

It became her mantra as she neared the school, terrified of what she would find, and she skidded to a halt when it came into view, her breath momentarily knocked free from her lungs. Clara looked over what was left of the two story building and then she continued to move forward, feeling the contents of her stomach threatening to expel themselves as she pushed on. She could see Captain Jarvis already tossing rubble aside looking for his four year old daughter Sam, and she could see General Isaacs shouting and pulling away from those who tried to tear him from the scene.

"Not until I have Jimmy!" he bellowed in response, turning and grabbing hold of a piece of building half his size and screaming with the effort it took to push it aside and let it crash onto what had been the sidewalk around the school.

Clara hit the edge of the debris with a grunt and she could already hear soldiers shouting at her to stop, but she wouldn't. She bloodied a knuckle on a brick and she burned a finger on another. Hands rounded her arms and she swung out to punch at people she knew – people she'd trained with; people she outranked; people who outranked her.

She didn't care.

" _I need to find Charlie_ ," she shouted at them angrily.

Turning her attention to the bricks, she began to dig, ignoring every logical thread of thought in her head that told her this was ridiculous and dangerous and counterproductive. She could hear the small cries from within the rubble. The tearful screams and the calls for _mummy_ that blurred her vision and finally allowed her to be pulled away, dropped onto the pavement in a heap of tears, and an eventual puddle of vomit, as those unaffected began coordinating an actual search effort.

They had to bring in machinery, they had to keep people to the outskirts of the debris, otherwise they risked crushing the children who had survived. Clara's mind repeated those words to her as she listened in a daze – _the ones who survived_ , because they knew it was impossible that they all had. There were shelters, but only so many would have made it. She imagined not many even had a chance to understand what had happened, much less found the time to get into the shelters. Clara hoped it had been quick for the ones who had died and that those left weren't suffering.

Her eyes closed, squeezing new tears onto her dirty cheeks, because Charlie had to be among them. He had to be alive and he was stuck underneath burning heavy bricks and smoldering fires and thick smoke. Conditions grown men and women wouldn't survive. Charlie was suffering, she knew, because the only other option was _he was dead_ and Clara wouldn't accept that.

The backpack on her shoulders beeped every so often with phone calls she ignored and she worked until the sun fell beneath the horizon, drinking water when forced and refusing to stop. "I'll slow down," she told a General gruffly, "But I will not stop until I'm holding my son, _is that understood_?"

The woman nodded sadly and handed her a bottle of water with a gentle, "At least take five minutes."

 _Charlie might not have five minutes_ , she wanted to say, and she knew she conveyed the message through the look she offered, because the other woman merely nodded and moved away to check on another soldier.

The first child out came with a bowing of heads and the first true silence the next morning. A little girl of five, her head having sustained a massive blow, her small crushed body laid out into a body bag to be taken away for identification and Clara watched the soldiers solute the child. She raised her own hand, straightening her sore back to offer the girl an ounce of the dignity that had been stolen from her by terrorists.

 _By the Doctor_ , someone had whispered.

Moving brick by brick, listening to others occasionally shouting out and then hearing the silence that followed, Clara found herself going numb to it all. Her phone had stopped ringing, the battery no doubt dead in the device, and her mother wouldn't be allowed near the site to check on her. She tried not to think about the woman, or how devastated she would be if she saw her then. Clara knew she looked horrid, crusted in dirt and blood, going on almost thirty six hours without sleep with little food or water – she couldn't keep anything down – and cried out.

Focusing on the whimpers that still occasionally rose from the remains, she continued to dig into a second night and then into a second morning. She'd been forced into a cot to lie down to rest and had been angered when she woke hours later, going back to digging into a third night and then a third morning. Her fingers up through her shoulders had lost feeling and her legs burned with the need to stop, but she carried on, shuffling bits of building and classrooms aside, hoping she could find someone – anyone – alive in the rubble. They'd pulled twenty four children; thirteen had been deceased. One had been in pieces.

And then she heard her name.

Stumbling backwards, she stood and looked to the group forming about ten feet away, all glancing up at her as someone dug hurriedly into the pile in front of them. Clara slid as she moved, hands cutting against bricks as she fell, making her way towards them to see the body half uncovered.

" _Oh_ ," was all she was able to say, voice wavering as she knelt to take over, watching her boy wince.

There was a terrible gash underneath his left eye and as she tossed debris off his legs, he moaned just a bit and she cried, seeing how they were broken, his right foot twisted at an odd angle. His shirt lifted and she could see the discoloration on his flesh and she could hear those around her going quiet. She supposed they knew what was coming, but as long as she could hear the tiny squeaks and gasps sputter from his lips, Clara held onto hope. She carefully plucked his body up into her lap as she fell backwards and someone shouted out for a gurney and she smiled.

A gurney, she thought to herself, not a body bag.

She touched his cheek and his eyelids shut tighter and Clara exhaled heavily, her heart pounding in her chest as she held him carefully, knowing he was hurting, seeing it in his little face. She brushed her fingers through his thick bangs, sullied with caked muck and blood, and she closed her eyes, pressing a kiss to his cold forehead where she could hear his wheezing breaths, struggling.

"Hold on, baby," she told him lightly, "Mummy's got you."

She shifted back when he murmured and she looked down at the bright eyes that slowly opened to greet her. Clara laughed because his lips turned up into a smirk as he glanced over her face, something in his body relaxing when he realized she was the one holding him, and they stared at one another for a minute in silence, Clara hearing the commotion behind her of workers trying to ready her with a board for him.

"Hi, mummy," her son breathed slowly, quietly.

"Hello, my Charlie," Clara whimpered back on a laugh shaken with tears.

The smile remained on his tiny lips, and his eyes continued to gaze up at her sleepily, but his chest had stopped its motion. He lay limply in her arms and Clara's bottom lip trembled as she understood. She heard the workers around her go quiet and she shook her head.

 _No_ , she wanted to tell them, you can't mourn him – _he's still here_.

Except she knew, bringing him up against her chest to hug as she began to bellow... _he wasn't_.


	27. Chapter 27

The Doctor held Clara as she broke down, snapping the psychic connection between them, and he felt his own tears falling as she collapsed into him, expelling all the pain he imagined she'd been denying herself the right to feel as low moans and hiccupped nonsense against his chest. His hands gripped at her back, tugging her closer to envelop his arms around her and he felt her do the same, her fingers digging into his jumper tightly, desperately.

He'd wanted to hold on longer, to know the circumstances of her attempted suicide – had she denied herself this release then as well? Had she held on so tightly to the anger that she'd forgotten to mourn for her son? The Doctor knew, feeling the convulsions of her sobs that shook him, that was exactly what she'd done. She could mourn her son's death after she killed the man responsible – except she never had. Clara knew the man on the street wasn't him, she knew it in her heart.

And now she knew he'd never been responsible in the first place.

He rubbed soothing circles against her back and he felt her calming, but he feared reliving that moment so vividly in her mind would stir up all of that old anger along with all of that old pain. The Doctor was afraid it would rekindle her need for revenge in a new and terrible way. And after some time, as she lay still against him taking small ragged breaths, he chanced to look down at her to try to gauge her emotional state, and he found her blankly staring at a spot beside him.

Still lost in that memory.

Still feeling his tiny body in her arms.

Still hearing those _two little words that shattered her world_ , he remembered.

"Clara," he whispered. She made a sound of acknowledgement. "You should sleep." She responded with a soft laugh, a sarcastic one he understood to mean _how can I sleep now_ , and he waited a moment before telling her, "If you like, we could stay here, you don't have to sleep, but you should get some rest. Memory transfer, it can be mentally and physically exhausting."

Outside the rain picked up and Clara lifted herself up just enough to look to the half open window shades next to the door at their right, to see the torrent falling outside and the occasional brightening of the world followed by the snap and the slow rumble of thunder. She turned to look at the Doctor and he could see the defeat in her eyes, and then it shifted into curiosity – of him, of his reaction, of his thoughts maybe? He nodded, giving permission for her to ask the question on her mind and she shifted on the couch to sit up straighter.

"How did she die?" She finally asked, voice sad and unsteady from crying.

He bowed his head with a disappointed frown, "I won't show you, if that's what you're asking."

She laughed, but it was weak, and she replied, "No, that's not – I wouldn't want to see it."

Raising his eyes to her, he asked, "Why did you show me Charlie's death – you said it was to understand."

Nodding, Clara pinched her lips together and touched her wrists in turn, then smiled up at him. "You said your ship could take you anywhere in time and space – I want to go."

He stared as she turned away, quickly covering those scars before leaning back into the couch to look to the fire and then back up at him, a small smile on her lips. The same smile Clara and this Clara's son had died with – a defiant smile; one that reminded him of their stubbornness and made him nod slowly. He then thought to the reason they were there and he could see that in her eyes as well.

"What about UNIT?" He forced the topic and waited.

Clara's fingers rubbed together anxiously and she watched him a moment, then took a breath and stated plainly, "If you take me with you, then we go back to UNIT just to get your Tardis; if you promise to take me with you, there'll be no more killing – no more talk of it, no more planning of it, no more even thinking about it," she ended with a shake of her head.

He smiled, and then informed her, "My Clara was an excellent liar."

The laugh she gave him was timid, not exactly 'caught', but accepting of his words. "I am," she began softly, "But I'm also determined."

"That's the part that concerns me," he replied.

Watching her turn away, he considered her, knowing very well she could be genuine in her request, but he also knew it could simply be her way of getting him to not question her and then she could get all the actual information on UNIT he had – information he imagined she already had if she weren't so blinded by hatred – and use it to destroy them when they arrived. Clara pulled the throw down off the back of the couch and covered her legs, giving her wound a sad glance before dropping heavily into the couch back, her eyes drooping with the exhaustion of her memories.

He'd felt her swell of hope at seeing her son and he'd felt it all drain away with his last breath.

The Doctor knew that feeling well and in his mind he could see Clara standing triumphantly with her sword and his Sonic, look of pure joy in her features just before it was all taken away. The pain of it echoed in his hearts like hot daggers and he reached out to touch her shoulder with his knuckles, waiting for her to turn to him to take a long breath and nod and tell her simply, "Ok."

"Ok?" Clara repeated. "Just like that, _ok_."

"Ok, one condition," he raised a finger and she bit her lip fearfully. "You know your face, your mannerisms, your existence; it has an obvious effect on me – as mine, on some subconscious level, has on you – so I need a _reason_. Something more _than I'm the Doctor and you're Clara Oswald and this is the way it should be_. Some," his hands came out and burst open before clasping shut into fists to finish, "Some _concrete reason_ that isn't cosmically guided."

"You want me to give you a reason to take me?" She asked lightly, unsure. "Do you ask the same of all of your travelling companions? Had Clara given you a reason?"

His head shook and he laughed, "She'd already given me two deaths to save my life, how could I deny her the opportunity to see the universe in exchange for that, especially when the universe chose to deliver her to me thrice?"

She smiled, a small shy one he wasn't used to from her, and then she suggested, "As the fourth favor of the universe, do I not deserve a go?"

"Are you a favor?" He questioned playfully, "You _did_ shoot me."

Pointing, she reminded, "I _stunned_ you. And then I saved you."

"And I saved you right back," he told her, gesturing at her leg.

"You don't know that you saved me," she groaned with a roll of her eyes.

His hands shifted as he narrowed his eyes to the ceiling, considering the notion before he aimed a smile at her, one that made her cover her mouth to laugh. "Come on, Clara. _Clever Clara_ ," he teased, "Give me a reason, and make it a good one."

He watched her think for just a moment before her grin disappeared and her eyes watered slightly and then she told him simply, "My son."

"Charlie?" He questioned.

Her laugh returned, haunted, and she explained, "Charles Oswin Palmer," she took a breath, "He was _my_ universe and that was _forcibly_ and _cruelly_ taken from me – and I know it wasn't your fault, not directly; I understand you played no part in that and I know now that it would never have been your decision to harm an innocent child – but it was done to turn me against you. I lost my world, my _hope_ , because of you." She pressed her lips together tightly and he could see her chin tremble slightly as she composed herself, unwilling to break down in tears again that night. "Please, for a little while, share your universe with me so I can _possibly_ remember what it was like to have one."

Eyes betraying her, the Doctor watched two warm droplets slip quickly over her cheeks and he reached out, sighing as he waited for her to place a hand within his. "It's dangerous," he warned. "Moreso than this war."

She nodded, "But there's a reward, isn't there? At the end of the day." The Doctor watched the dark eyes that bore into his as she continued, "I thought this war would bring peace; I thought I was doing a good thing, but it's just death and deception and _death_." Clara swallowed roughly against unshed tears, "Your travels, it's dangerous, but you save people."

"Sometimes," he allowed, "If I'm lucky."

"You visit new lands and you discover new things and when you leave, you're better for it," she told him before asking quietly, "Right?"

"Sometimes," he told her again, "If I'm lucky."

There was the shy smile again, he thought, and he understood she could very well be putting him on, he accepted that, but he also accepted that her heart was worse than broken – and if he could give her a small amount of hope in believing in her, then he would. The Doctor would choose to believe she was telling the truth and he would honor her request if she kept her word. Giving her hand a squeeze, he nodded his head and sighed.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Yes," she repeated, almost a question; almost in disbelief.

He raised his brow and elaborated, "All of time and all of space." He glanced around with a shrug and a half-smile as he laughed, "And all of Earth on occasion."

Clara laughed with him and she squeezed his hand. "So it's a _yes_. A solid yes."

The Doctor looked to her and then he tugged her closer and she understood – she had to rest. It was getting later and in the morning he intended to make her walk again. He intended to take her to the creek because he knew she would like it and he intended to take her to pick berries so he could watch her pop them straight into her mouth. The Doctor imagined it would bring back happy memories; ones she might have forgotten in all of the sadness of death and war.

"It's a yes," he whispered as she stretched herself carefully beside him as he laid on the couch, her head resting against his breast to listen to his calm and steady heartbeats drumming away. Knowing that beat would lull her to sleep faster than the tapping of rain against the roof. Her right hand came up to rest at his sternum, fingertips curling slightly against the fabric of his jumper.

And soon she was asleep. Dreaming, he hoped, of better times ahead.

"It's a yes for Charlie," he told her, "For all of the years he was robbed of and all of the wonderful things he should have done." He brushed his left hand over her hair, pushing it behind her ear to watch her breathe. She seemed peaceful – moreso than he'd ever seen her – and he relished the small smirk on her lips and the comfortable way she held him.

If she were telling the truth and she'd abandoned her plans for revenge in exchange for plans of escape, the Doctor would take her away from this war for as long as he could. For as long as she could. He sighed and settled his hand atop hers, gripping it lightly and hearing the small noise of contentedness she made just before she snuggled closer to him.

"It's a yes for Clara Oswald," he whispered. "For exactly the same."


	28. Chapter 28

The Doctor listened to the rain until it tapered out, and then he took turns watching Clara sleep against him and having casual conversations with Rudy. The deer seemed very interested in humans – he said the last two who stayed in the cabin went into the woods and disappeared and the Doctor frowned at that notion, remembering what Clara had told him. He had no doubts they were still out there, merely locked in an eternal sleep of sorts, he said to try to sooth the deer.

Rudy made a noise of frustration and explained, " _I was being polite – they're dead_."

Just as the sun began to flitter in through the windows, Clara began to stir, shifting slightly against him before he felt the long sigh she released warm his chest and saw her eyes blink open. She remained there, calmly, and he smiled when her right leg slipped back off his, knew her cheeks would be burning if he told her she'd raised it there hours ago, knee occasionally nudging him uncomfortably. Instead he kept silent, waiting for her to shake the bangs out of her eyes to lift her head and peer up at him with an embarrassed grin.

"Morning," she told him softly, fingers stretching against his stomach.

He smiled, "Good morning, Clara."

"Sleep well?" She asked sheepishly. He'd dare say nervously.

On a nod, he responded, "Quite."

She chuckled and bowed her head, lying it back against his chest to tell him, "You're a terrible liar."

"Being completely honest, I wasn't the one needing sleep – but also being honest, it wasn't the worst sleepless night I've had," he sighed. He lifted a hand to rub at her hand before telling her, "Let's have a look at the leg."

"Can we just lay here a while?" She managed.

He raised his eyebrows and scoffed, "Now you're tired."

Biting her lip, she replied, "I'm comfortable."

The Doctor laid his head back and he gave her arm a squeeze with his right hand and smiled when she pulled herself up closer to him, nestling her head on his shoulder. Just close enough for him to have to resist pressing a kiss to her forehead. He looked to the deer, who was curled up on the ground and he looked to the dwindling fire, knowing they'd need more wood; thankful the days had become warmer, though he supposed the rain would bring with it a new chill to the air.

"You never told me," Clara said quietly, "You never told me how she died."

He glanced down to find her staring up at him, and he told her simply, "Run through by an enemies blade."

She winced, then asked, "Was it a quick death?"

The air left him, mind instantly seeing her lying on the ground, trying to take breaths as the last of her triumphant face drifted away, replaced with shock. He knew it'd nicked her heart – if it hadn't, she might have had a chance. A few broken bones, a lot of pain, a long recovery period, but she might have made it. Instead her heart slowly expelled its blood with every rapid beat and eventually, it gave. Was it a quick death, he pondered, he supposed it was, but it wasn't quick enough – he'd felt the terror in her mind behind those last thoughts.

"Yes," he told her.

"Terrible liar," she stated.

His lips pressed together tightly and he stared at the ceiling a moment before giving her a small nudge and looking towards the kitchen, "No more of this," he began gruffly, "Up, breakfast, therapy." He carefully slipped away from her and stood, gesturing down and stating, "Leg."

"You won't talk about her death," she grunted as she lifted herself up to sit and tossed the throw aside, body shivering against the sudden lack of warmth as he knelt and looked over the stitching. "Doesn't seem fair."

He shook his head, the wound would be fine if she didn't over exert herself again, and then he explained, "You offered up your memory of Charlie's death – you said it was to help explain. I have no such inclinations."

With a small nod as the Doctor stood and made his way to the kitchen, Clara called, "When you say therapy, do you mean we're going out for a walk again?"

"Yes," he spat, then twisted and pointed, "Let Rudy out, would you?"

She smiled at the deer, who perked up at the sound of his name, and then she asked, "Shouldn't we offer him breakfast or something? As our guest?"

The Doctor set down the cup of left over pancake batter from the fridge and he toggled his head as he told her, "I had planned on it, but I'd rather not have deer droppings inside the cabin."

Mouth forming a small 'o' of realization, Clara carefully pushed herself into a standing position, hissing against the soreness in her limbs as she tugged her shirt down and pulled the throw back up to wrap around herself. Clara limped towards the front door, hearing the deer stand and follow. The Doctor listened as she went outside, her voice carrying back to him gently as she spoke to the animal at her side in frustration.

" _He's a bit of a grump, isn't he, Rudy_?"

"You have no idea," the Doctor argued as he began to pluck up berries left over from the night before so he could toss them into the batter. He'd made her blackberry pancakes and when they got a new stash, maybe a blackberry pie. Though he supposed it might be smarter to not dwindle their sugar supply on sweets – no matter how much he wanted them.

Outside, Clara looked out at the foggy landscape in a sort of daze. The day didn't feel real; not much did in that moment. The Doctor was going to help her rehabilitate and then he was going to help her break into UNIT and then he was going to carry her away from this place and all of its pain. She leaned against the railing that circled the front deck and she waited as the deer sniffed around the cabin, thinking about how wonderful it would be to climb in that blue box and escape.

She hadn't been lying.

She wanted to leave.

Bowing her head, she frowned because she knew the thought in the back of her mind was dangerous – the one that allowed that if it was possible for there to be a million versions of her, then it was possible somewhere out there in the grand universe, somewhere in the expanse of time... there was another Charlie. A little boy whose mother might have passed; a little boy who might accept her as his. She sniffled hard and shook the thought away.

"You're not going to find Charlie in the stars," she whispered.

" _He's still in your heart, Clara_ ," she could hear her Gran telling her. " _Always in your heart_."

It didn't seem fair, she thought, that the Doctor could simply search another version of her out if he wanted to, and avoid suffering the pain of his Clara's death. Though she understood perfectly well that if she could do it herself, she would. She knew she'd always be looking over her shoulder when they travelled, hoping against hope she'd see that flop of dark hair and those sparks of green smiling back at her. They were her greatest dreams that ended in her worst nightmares.

A trip to the store and he'd simply walk up to the cart and take hold of the edge, asking brightly as he cocked his head to look up at her, " _Are we going to get cake today, mummy_?"

Walking through the park and he'd come bouncing towards her with two handfuls of blackberries, telling her exasperatedly, " _I found these for us, mummy_."

Standing beside her at his funeral, head bowed, tugging at the bow tie around his neck as he took her hand and lamented, " _That's a very small coffin, mummy_."

They were the nightmares that drove her to push a blade into her wrists.

The tiny voice that haunted her at every turn.

Clara felt a cold nose nudge her knee through the throw she was gripping and she blinked rapidly, feeling the tears fall as she looked to the deer. He stared up at her and she imagined it was with some sort of sympathy – if the Doctor could talk to it, surely it could understand all that had transpired the night before. Surely it understood her pain. Though she hated to think on it, knowing the deer was near the cabins, it's family might have become someone's last supper.

"Back inside, eh?" She told it, chancing to reach out.

Rudy bowed his head to let her pet him and Clara smiled, carefully gliding her hand over its smooth fur just twice before she lead him back inside where she could already smell the berries cooked into the pancakes and she groaned automatically as she limped her way towards the bathroom. The Doctor had already served her once she emerged, and she ate quickly, hungrily, smiling at the plate of berries and nuts the Doctor had prepared for Ruby alongside a bowl of water.

He told her to get her trousers on and meet him outside and he walked away with a pancake in his hand, taking a large bite just as he exited the cabin. Clara grinned because she remembered what he'd said about cabin fever and how it must have ached to have spent the night so still by her side. And then she felt her cheeks glow at the notion that he could have, at any moment, dropped her onto the couch to go explore on his own. She'd been so exhausted from whatever memory sharing he'd done with her that she'd fallen into a slumber so deep dreams couldn't penetrate.

The deer grunted by the front door and Clara stood, making her way towards it to let him out and she heard the Doctor exclaim, " _Rudy_! Oh, no trousers yet," just as she closed it.

With a small laugh, she trudged into the back room and she moved to the closet, searching for another pair of women's pants to pull over her legs and then she doubled her socks and pushed her feet into trainers, ready to take it slow today. Clara didn't want to risk ripping her stitches again – she felt foolish enough having done it once. Mostly because she could have re-infected her wound and she was down to her last pill for dinner.

There were hair ties in the bathroom and she pulled her hair up into a messy ponytail, sighing to her image in the mirror. Clara examined her face slowly, turning it from side to side to tuck strands of hair behind her ears before fluffing her bangs slightly, blowing at the ones that laid over her right brow and chuckling when they flopped up and fell back. And she realized – she wanted to make sure she looked nice for the Doctor.

"Idiot," she told herself. "He's two thousand years old; you're a child to him."

Turning slowly, she went towards the front door and pulled it open, watching him swing around to look up at her, a smile already on his idiotic face as he exclaimed, "Rudy's gone, he says thanks for the shelter and he'll try to stop by another day to check on us – make sure you haven't killed me, or I you... though I've the strangest impression he's more concerned you'll..." he trailed, then finished slowly, "Are you alright?"

She stood at the top of the three steps that lead to the muddy ground beneath and realized she was gripping her hands together tightly, picking at her fingers. Nervous habit, she knew, she'd done it all of her life, but she could see it affecting him – knew automatically it was something _his_ Clara did. It was something she did because of her. _Inherited_? Clara didn't know if that was the right word.

With a small bop of her head and a smile, she told him honestly, "Yeah, I'm actually good."

The Doctor eyed her a moment, judging her, she supposed, before his demeanor shifted swiftly. The tension left his lanky frame and his arms flopped up to his left before he uttered on a gasp, "Well, let's get exploring."


	29. Chapter 29

The woods were silent; the fog still sat heavy in the air and Clara found it difficult to breathe – as though each breath were thicker than it should have been and she rationalized that it was: it was infused with water. Of course the Doctor didn't seem to be phased. He was poking about, winding around trees, hoping over rocks and then lifting those light enough to lift. Each time he seemed disappointed and Clara would have asked him why, if she'd had the breath to.

"Ah!" He finally gasped on the thirteenth rock, hand reaching to pat his breast for a pocket and Sonic that weren't there.

"Ah," Clara repeated on a gasp of her own, though far less enthused.

His arm waved in wild circles, beckoning her, and she made her way to him slowly, watching his brow climb and fall over his eyes as he examined something on the ground. Bugs, she imagined. She hoped there weren't roaches – she wasn't very fond of them. She grimaced just a bit as she came closer and then she looked to where he was pointing, as though proud of his find.

"Worms," Clara huffed.

He gestured back towards the cabin, "There are fishing poles in a storage room behind the cabin, we could use these."

Nodding, Clara pinched her lips together and continued walking. "Ok," she said simply.

"Obviously not now," he groaned, settling the rock back down and following her. "But fishing was an option, was it not?"

"Ya," she breathed. Then she asked, "Have you been looking for worms, all of this time?"

His hands came together, twisting as he stated, "No, I've been looking for anything interesting really."

"Underneath rocks," she told him.

He smiled, "Of course underneath rocks – great hiding place, soil isn't dried out as easily by the sun or the cold, actually traps heat. You find the most eclectic sort of insects hiding underneath rocks."

"And worms," she reminded.

"Most definitely worms," he repeated with a manic smile.

Clara eyed him as they walked, finally telling him, "You're weird."

He only laughed.

They continued walking, him picking up a stick to tap against his other hand as Clara watched him, a smirk on her lips as she asked, "Are you always like this?"

The Doctor tilted his head towards her to reply, "Am I always interested in the world around me? Yes, salaciously." Then he turned, walking backwards with his hands out towards her to finish, "What sort of a traveller would I be if I hadn't an interest in what I found?"

True, Clara knew, and she offered him a nod of acceptance. Then she teased, "Do you often find yourself looking for worms?"

He laughed at that, feet gracefully twisting him back so they were facing the same direction, and his head dropped back, eyes half closed. Genuinely amused. The Doctor poked her lightly with his stick to tell her, "You know, without the anger, you're pleasant company."

She eyed him, feeling her cheeks go pink, before responding, "You're not so bad yourself."

And then they fell back into silence. The Doctor continuing his odd observations and his wild patterns around the trees. Clara watched him, careful about her steps, knowing a wrong one could tear her stitching again, and she found herself absently grinning at him. He was quite foolish, actually, feet brushing leaves aside to get a look at the soil underneath – as though it told him something. She found herself looking to the ground herself, wondering just what he found there.

What sort of traveller would she be if she only found an interest in her guide?

Thinking to his other companions – the dozens he'd taken over the years – she began to wonder whether he wasn't part of that travelling package, just as important as the destinations themselves. The thought lifted her lips, pondering whether his Clara would have preferred future or past destinations. She'd seen aliens and technology beyond her wildest dreams while at UNIT, but she'd never visited another planet, or another time. Part of her thought it might be interesting to go to the past and experience the history she'd learned about in person, though she was a little afraid of the potential disruptions they might cause.

Looking to the man now balancing his way along a log – thin arms flailing out at either side of him, tongue tucked between his lips – she had a hard time believing he could be inconspicuous. How did he travel around and not make it into more history books... though she knew the truth, he was generally wiped from them because humans were nothing if not arrogant.

Somewhere in the UNIT databases were probably thousands upon thousands of redacted stories she'd love to get her hands on. Tales of his antics that weren't stripped to their negatives. Tales that truly told the tale of the Doctor.

"Mind," he stated suddenly. "Spill."

"Sorry?" She blinked herself back to reality to watch him hop off the edge of the log and aim a curious stare at her as he rubbed his hands together, blowing into them hotly. Stick, she noticed, tucked into the pocket of his trousers.

He gestured at her, "That look," he smiled, "It means one of two things," his head toggled slightly before he explained, "Unless your breakfast has settled unhappily in your stomach, you've got something that's tangled up your mind in a flurry of questions." His hands unclasped and lifted at his sides to the woods around him, "Nothing else to do, so ask away."

Looking to her left, Clara posited, "Which do you prefer, past or future?" She pointed, "Or _present_?"

He shrugged, "Makes no difference."

Clara spat on a laugh, "You don't have a preference?"

"All the same to me, really," he responded with a smile. "Seen it all a million times."

Eyes rolling to look up at the branches, Clara sighed and then asked, "If it's all the same, why travel?"

He pointed, "You."

She laughed again and stated, " _Explain_ – and this better be good."

"Oh," he started with a widening of his eyes, "I think you'll like this very much." He came to her side, offering her an arm to balance on as they moved down a slope. "You see, like I said, I've seen it all a million times – of course, possibly an exaggeration – and like anything else you've seen a million times – again, _possibly_ an exaggeration – your eyes start to dull to what you're seeing. The senses stop feeling the warmth of sun or the wetness of rain or the cool breath of the ocean air... at least not in the same way. It's muted, colorless, pointless even."

Clara side eyed him as they reached the bottom, slowly walking with him, their arms now intertwined permanently, it seemed. "So where do I come in?"

Forefinger of his free hand coming up to point, he smiled to the ground and uttered, "You'd be more adept at understanding this than most." He glanced up, "Look at the sky. Big blue mess of sunlight bouncing off the various atmospheres." Clara's eyes followed his and then she shrugged as they came to a stop and he instructed, "Now look at the sky the way _Charlie_ looked at the sky."

"He wanted to know what was up there – didn't understand why we couldn't just take the stairs, because stairs go _up_ don't they?" She laughed, then her head came down with a memory, "The first time he saw planes, and he really understood what they were, he begged me to take him flying so he could touch the blue." She looked to the Doctor, "He thought it was a wall he could simply slip his fingers over."

The Doctor watched the sadness in her eyes as her hand waved over the space above them and then dropped back at her side and he asked, "It was magical through him, wasn't it?"

"Everything was magical through Charlie," she responded, voice almost lost to that melancholy.

He understood, and he nodded as he admitted, "It's sad now, thinking back on it – that's how I feel after companions have gone – but for the time they're with me, each companion brings with them a touch of that magic." With a sigh, he looked to the sky and slowed to a stop and he shifted to stand in front of her as he continued, "They bring the _vibrancy_ back into the universe and I remember how wonderful it all is. I can see it again as _they_ see it and I suppose I crave them just as much as they begin to crave the adventures we have."

Clara waited for him to meet her gaze to ask, "So, it becomes an addiction, the travelling?"

For a moment, he simply stared back – something, she knew, tangling up his own mind – and then he slowly nodded to tell her, "Yes, yes it does, and you have to be ok with that."

The Doctor could see the words weighing on her in much the same way they'd weighed on his Clara as she'd questioned him about it so long ago. She'd given in then and he wondered whether she should have – wondered whether he should allow this Clara to, but he knew he couldn't argue if she did. As much as he craved a companion, he craved _her_ in particular so much more. The universe through Clara Oswald's eyes had never been as beautiful and he held his breath as he waited for her to respond.

Watching the longing in his eyes, she finally breathed, "Yeah, I'm ok with that." Then she asked, "How long would I have. I mean, what's the time limit – how old before I'm pushed aside for a newer model," she teased.

He reached for her hands and held them tightly within his to tell her, "You can have all of the days my Clara never got."

"But, Doctor," she laughed, "That's not really a finite answer."

"There aren't really a finite number of days," he said softly.

She started to smile, but the wind shifted and she pulled a hand away to cover her nose, turning to look for the source of the sourness in the air. The Doctor plucked his stick out of his pocket and pointed it, then stared at it and tossed it aside, beginning to sniff and then move. She didn't know what he expected to find, but she had a pretty good clue and she reached for him, mumbling through her palm at him to stop, but he rushed forward, perhaps thinking it was something interesting.

Instead he found two bodies, several feet apart, in a state of decay. Clara watched him stare down in horror, but she knew, by the look on his face and the way he walked a casual circle around them, that these weren't his first corpses. He was trying to figure it out, but she already knew, and she bowed her head as she touched an absent set of fingers to her chest, feeling the ghost of an old ache there.

The Doctor looked up to her, remaining at a distance, and he could see the way her body trembled slightly, so slightly anybody else might not have noticed. The remains reminded her of something and, by the way she held her heart, he understood. He looked back to the man and woman lying on the ground and lamented, "This is how it ends, him shooting her as an act of _cowardice_ in the name of _compassion_."

Clara shook her head, "No," she stated sadly, gesturing to the man lying on his stomach with his arms outstretched, body pointed away from the woman who'd fallen on her side, and she told the Doctor, "She shot him in the back as he fled, and then turned the gun on herself."


	30. Chapter 30

Clara imagined the downpours of the night before must have washed away the layer of muck covering up the smell, because they were close enough to the cabin to have caught a whiff of them by now. She tried to concentrate on facts like that to keep her mind from reliving her own experience as she watched the Doctor examine the bodies to agree with her conclusion and then suggest a burial. Of course he would suggest a burial, she considered – giving that woman respect she didn't deserve – and she waited while he went to the cabin to retrieve a shovel.

She stood with her back turned while he dug one hole, only a few feet deep, and she ignored all of his grunts of agony as she watched the leaves flutter across the ground on a breeze, or listened to the way the same wind played through the trees. Rudy was somewhere nearby, or at least some deer was, she knew, and she spent a while sitting on a stump waiting for it to arrive. Somehow she though it would, but it never did. Only a set of heavy thumps and the final clank of the shovel falling to the ground, and it was only then that she turned to see him standing in front of the open hole where he'd placed the bodies.

"You haven't covered them," she pointed out, voice barely audible.

"I thought we would pay our respects first, while we can still look at what's left of their faces," he responded with a gesture towards them and a lifting of his brow.

She hesitated, glaring at the corpses, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest, a small bit of panic beginning to rise through her neck coldly to spin her mind. And then he touched her shoulder, bending before her to tell her quietly, "You don't have to."

"She killed him," Clara stated, "And he probably thought this was a second honeymoon." She clenched her jaw before saying quietly, "He probably had hope when she brought him out into these woods and then she killed him. He died in confusion, Doctor."

His hand slipped over her arm and rested at her elbow, asking, "Is that what you felt?"

Eyes burning, she looked to him and hissed, "Yes."

Free hand coming up, he suggested, "Why don't you tell her."

Clara laughed darkly, repeating, "Tell her?"

"Go tell that woman what you think of her; tell that man how you sympathize."

Shaking her head, she shot, "You do know they're dead, right?"

"Doesn't matter," he replied simply before standing and shifting away from her.

It didn't take a genius to understand what the Doctor wanted, and Clara gripped her hands together in her lap considering whether or not she should. She'd always been told she should talk about it and she never did. Clara never talked about any of it because she thought it would be seen as weakness and she needed to be strong – she needed to survive Tom and she needed to survive Charlie. Standing, she limped towards the shallow grave and looked to the way he'd laid them, side by side.

"This is _wrong_ ," she spat harshly. "Putting them in the same grave – he deserves better than this."

The Doctor nodded slowly and then uttered simply, "Why?"

"Because people deserve to be buried with loved ones; people deserve to be buried by loved ones." She looked from the Doctor back to the grave, "People deserve to live out their lives and not have them taken over fear and despair and _selfishness_."

Her last word echoed through the woods.

"Not shot unexpectedly, _in the back_ during a walk, or after being asked to change into _something nice_ , just so you can have one last look at that world you wanted before leaving it and taking them with you." She grimaced and turned away, looking to the Doctor to tell him, "No one should take the life of another," and then she spoke aloud words she had only thought before, "Maybe I shouldn't have lived."

Staring calmly, the Doctor replied, "You lived so Charlie could have a chance at life."

"And then he _died_ ," she muttered, face crumpling. Her hands came up and slapped back down at her sides in defeat, "Maybe that was my punishment for all of those people I killed – to be reminded of how _beautiful_ life could be; to be given the most _perfect_ little soul and then to have him taken from me."

He reached out to keep her upright as she shook her head, wanting nothing more than to fall to the ground and sob into those piles of leaves around them. Clara heard him call her name and she looked up to see him shaking his head at her, sadness lining his features, and he told her clearly, "Charlie's death was not a punishment; no child's death is a punishment." He gripped her arms and she forced her legs to stay sturdy underneath her as he released her and assured, "Charlie's death was murder – all of those children were murdered."

"And you want me to walk away from the men and women who murdered them," she bellowed.

"I want you to keep a level head, Clara." He nodded when she did. "Brave heart; level head."

And then she began quietly, "You've seen all of time and space. You've taken a look at us through the years, so you must have answers..." her voice drifted into silence and then she asked, "Is UNIT ever held accountable for their crimes?"

The Doctor bowed his head in embarrassment, because he should have an answer for her, but he didn't. He searched his memories for the millionth time and told her honestly, "I have never seen this war, Clara. Without the Tardis I can't see how this affects time – it could be cataclysmic, or it could simply be a memory I've jettisoned in order to keep another during my last regeneration."

"You've never seen this war?" She questioned, voice hoarse.

Shaking his head, the Doctor shrugged, "No recollection."

"And you're just going to get in the Tardis and fly off?" She spat.

He lowered his brow, "What other choice is there?"

She pushed away from him and took several steps back towards the cabin and then turned to ask, calmer than the Doctor had imagined she would, "How do you find it so easy to walk away?"

His mouth fell open and then he clamped it shut, pointing a finger at her to say, "It's never _easy_ to walk away."

Clara pointed right back, shouting, "You're going to." She laughed. "You're content to just pick me up to replace your companion and saunter off in your blue box into the stars as if nothing had happened. Pretend the universe is just fine; deny the reality."

"I'm doing no such thing," he growled.

Turning a careful circle, Clara raised her hands to push through her hair before twisting back with a wince as the muscles in her right leg screamed at the motion to watch the way he was rearing up – ready to fight, as though it were normal... _expected_ even. The idea made her second guess her decision because she had to wonder if his relationship with Clara had been as wonderful as he'd projected... was she some sort of second chance to get it right?

She grimaced slowly at him and muttered, "You came looking for a _replacement_. Look at you; you're upset I'm even questioning this. Just wanna run away like you always do!"

The Doctor laughed and then he nodded, finger wagging at her before he scoffed, "You know I could say the same of you."

Her mouth dropped open.

"A little over a week ago you were ready to charge into UNIT and blow everyone to bits and now you want to run away in my Tardis." He frowned angrily, "You want to forget your son and your husband and the pain you've had to endure – are you any different?"

Clara stared, and then she nodded slowly and glanced to the two bodies in the pit. "You have no idea what I've endured."

He stepped towards her and yelled, "No, _you_ have no idea what _I've_ endured!"

The words bounced through the air, sending a flock of birds nearby into the sky. He watched as Clara's eyes widened with a small bit of fright she aimed at him and the Doctor turned away in embarrassment. He offered a sloppy apology for the outburst accompanied with an awkward flap of his hand towards her as he walked back to the pit to look down at the man and woman he'd place there. He imagined they'd been happy once – he knew enough stories that ended this way to believe that had to be true.

There was a click behind him and he turned slowly to look into the barrel of the gun she'd raised at him. The Doctor glanced around curiously, wondering if she'd brought it with her all of this time, or whether it had been the weapon used by the woman in the grave. He realized it was stupid to question it at all because it was leveled at his head and her eyes were reddened with anger he knew well. He'd seen it on a volcano in a dream, but this wasn't a dream and her threat was very real.

"What do you know of pain?" Clara told him, voice low and shaky. "What do _you_ know of pain, Doctor?"

He bowed his head, shoulders slumping, and he lifted his eyes just enough to see her to say, "I've lived over two thousand years, do you honestly believe they were all good?"

"I held my only son in my arms as he took his last breath and I _watched_ the life leave his eyes while he smiled up at me," she managed, "Nothing, Doctor... _nothing_ in your two thousand years will _ever_ hurt as much as that did."

Hands coming up, he told her softly, "I've lived with a memory of destroying my home planet, my children and grandchildren still living on it; I've lived with _that_ pain for hundreds of years – I understand how it festers in your mind and eats at your heart, Clara, I do."

The gun lowered slowly and she nodded, accepting his words before lifting the gun to hold in her hands, finger still lingering on the trigger. "How did you share your pain with me, Doctor, when you were with UNIT?"

"You asked me before, if Clara was my wife and I told you she wasn't, but that wasn't entirely true – she wasn't my wife, but we were _married_ to one another, in a sense." He chuckled, "It was sort of an accident really. Not long after we met, a few months into our travels, we landed on a planet where the people lived in a sort of psychic harmony with the planet itself. We saved them from an invading species and were rewarded with a tiny bit of that link, to that planet and to each other." He sighed. "She didn't know how to use it, didn't really have to, but on Gallifrey, we learn to use our neural pathways to psychically connect to others, so I'm capable." With a shrug, he told her, "I rarely tapped into it, it seemed unfair if she couldn't reciprocate."

Clara toggled the gun in her hand a moment, pressing it for just a second against her temple to twist the barrel into her skin, and then she tossed it into the hole. She looked to the Doctor and nodded, "And a part of that link went out with all of her echoes."

"Yes," he said simply.

"I want to know how she died," she told him. "I want to know what you felt."

"Why?" the Doctor questioned bluntly.

She swallowed, walking towards him to stare up at him. "I want to know I'm not just some replacement part in your Tardis; I want to know she wasn't one either."

He took a long breath that stung his chest and then he nodded and lifted his hands to wrap around the sides of her head. And the Doctor braced himself against the memories he was about to relive.


	31. Chapter 31

Clara gave a quick laugh of glee and the Doctor joined her, watching her raise her hands in the air, sword held tightly in one hand, his Sonic grasped in the other. Around them the crumbling building blazed, but in that moment, they were entirely delighted, lost in their victory. And then the features on her face froze in shock. The Doctor continued smiling, brow faltering slightly as he failed to registering what had happened until her head dropped to look down and he saw the blade protruding from her chest, blood beginning to soak the front of her cream colored blouse as it slipped back and Clara fell forward.

He shouted her name, feeling thunder in his chest as he heard the objects she'd been holding clatter to the ground on either side of her just before her body dropped against the rubble and the Doctor looked up at the reptilian face that snarled back at him. With a deafening cry, the Doctor leapt forward, lifting the sword from Clara's limp hand and in a move that startled the alien that had expected him to give up, he dug Clara's blade deep into the body in front of him.

The Silurian gasped, unable to move away, held up by the metal in his body, and he watched the rage that shook the Doctor's face. Even he knew it was a sight seldom seen and he understood why – it was a rare moment that the Time Lord lost his temper – and as the Silurian stared in shock, what the Doctor had done began to register on his face. Looking at the sword in his grasp, the Doctor backed away slightly and shook his head, as if dazed, and he pulled away. The alien dropped as the Doctor stumbled backwards, tripping over his companion's feet and falling to the ground beside her to watch her reach a hand to him, a small smile on her lips, as she lay on her stomach.

"Clara," he managed, lifting himself up and rolling her into his lap as she hissed in pain, crying out and then giving several agonizing shouts while he tried to assess her wound, lying her down to retrieve the Sonic to wave over her. "Please no, Clara, _please_ ," he pleaded.

"Doctor…" she moaned, eyes shutting a moment before she blinked up at him, dropping tears over her pale skin and he realized her breathing was slowing. She gave him a smile and he mirrored it as best he could, shaking his head when she told him, "It's alright; not even hurting anymore. I think it'll be fine." Then she nodded, wincing slightly to ask, "When it's over, could you take me to my dad? I _think_ … I think that's right. _Yeah_ …"

He laughed then, hoarsely, free hand lifting from her chest and leaving a small streak of blood at her cheek as he stroked it. It occurred to him that he hadn't taken enough time in this body to do that. Funny, the things one ponders in the final moments, he considered sadly. Her dark eyes scanned over his face, some amusing thought lifting her lips away and then her features relaxed in that contentment.

"Clara," he whimpered.

Her large eyes stared up at him lifelessly, that grin still on her lips, and he shook his head, jaw clenching as he lifted her into his arms to move with her towards the Tardis. There was an explosion to his right and he shifted away from it, turning to protect her from the debris that pummeled his back. Her head lulled against his chest and he could see the splatters of his tear against her face as he glanced down to check on her again.

He half expected her to laugh at him, to mock him for falling for her fake death, but she remained motionless as he pushed into the Tardis and then kicked the door shut behind him. With a shout of frustration, he went to the console, settling her down and gingerly swiping at the hair that had fallen into her face. She couldn't be… he thought to himself, eyes drifting over her face, to her neck, to the bloody mess of her blouse.

"Clara, _Clara_ , _please_ ," he begged, waiting for a moment before he stood in a rush and began pushing levers on the console, slamming his palm into buttons and racing around to swing a large handle down. The engine roared, but he didn't hear it – he was listening for the remnants of thoughts that remained in her, the few thoughts still snapping about in her head.

 _Oh, dad will be disappointed._

 _Really, a sword in the chest._

 _Fairly impressive, far as deaths go._

 _Got the job done though; saved the Doctor._

 _Oh, mum!_

 _My stars, mum, I never told him._

 _I never told him…_

"Clara, I can bring you _back_ ," he shouted angrily as he rounded the console. "Don't you dare, you were _owed_ to me," he continued, leaping over her right arm. "It can't end this way," he continued, landing roughly to flick at switches. " _Clara_!" he bellowed as the machine landed.

He picked her back up, hoping the sound he'd heard when her body collided with his had been a small groan from her and not some imagined thing, and he rushed into the old house, screaming for Strax. Vastra entered first and seeing the scales of her face made his hearts pound with rage, but he turned away, knowing he shouldn't aim it at her.

The Doctor chose to look down at the woman he held, dropping to his knees in their living room before tearing his eyes away to frantically plead, " _Help me save her_."

The eyes that found his were momentarily panicked, the Doctor knew, because she'd never seen him as desperate, and she'd never seen this form as vulnerable. They remained locked on his in shock for a fraction of a second, but to the Doctor it felt like an eternity, waiting to know whether she would – or even could – help him. He refused to believe it was impossible, not just yet.

Vastra tore her eyes away, turning swiftly to yell, "Strax, _this is a medical emergency_!"

The small Sontaran came rushing down the hall in his tuxedo, but when he saw Clara in the arms of the Doctor, he stopped short and asked, almost sympathetically, "What has happened to the boy?"

"She was stabbed, I think her heart might have stopped," the Doctor allowed hesitantly as Strax approached and scanned her over before glancing up at Vastra with an almost imperceptible shake of his head as Jenny entered and gasped.

Strax could feel the Doctor's eyes on him and when he turned to meet them, they were a brilliant red, burning with a horror and desperation Strax hadn't expected. He certainly never imagined he'd see it in the face he stared at and when he finally breathed, "She's gone, Doctor," his body went rigid, expecting an onslaught.

Instead the man in front of him shook his head and whispered, "She's not; _she's here_ ; I can _feel_ her."

With a small nod, he told him sadly, "Doctor, her heart was punctured..."

Reaching up, he grabbed the tie Strax wore and he shouted, " _Then you use all of this ridiculous technology of yours and you put it back together_." Vastra approached and laid her hand on the Doctor's, but he pulled away sharply, shouting, " _Don't_ you _touch me_!"

Backing away, she exchanged a glance with Jenny as Strax stood and they all remained as the Doctor shifted Clara in his arms, cradling her against himself to smile down at her, nodding, "Clara, would you please, _please_ … You've always been so good at it," he laughed quietly, shakily, before attempting to finish, "Prove them wrong, Clara, just once more…" the words trailed off as he began to cry in spite of himself.

Her eyes had closed and he told himself she was sleeping – just _resting_ – but he knew the truth of it. That small space on her neck through which he could gauge her anger, or her excitement, based on a small thumping of a vein, had gone still. And though her lips were still set in an impossible smirk, there were no more thoughts in her mind to flutter up into his.

"Doctor," Vastra said plainly, kneeling in front of him.

His eyes came up, welled with tears the woman hadn't anticipated that dropped heavily through the lines in his cheeks as he remained, mouth agape, staring up at her. Some bit of shock settling in that worried the Silurian. Giving her a small shake of his head as he trembled, he looked back down at Clara and managed to utter, "No, she was owed to me. She was mine, my _second chance_ …"

"Doctor, she's _gone_."

He hugged Clara to him, feeling the warm blood soaking through the dark ragged jumper he wore and the thin pale shirt underneath, staining his own chest red. She would appreciate it, he knew, the hug. Laughing to himself, he thought about all of the times he'd remained stiff in her grasp and his breaths became huffs, dissolving into his fight against the sorrow he refused to give in to. Until he could no longer, staring down at the eyes he longed to see staring back up at him.

He felt the three others in the room shift slowly away from him as he allowed himself one long howl before going silent, body limp against the ground with Clara held to him. Pulling her closer, he pressed his nose into her hair, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes to exhale. His hands gripped at her wanting nothing more than for her to giggle and tell him lightly, " _Doctor, you're holding me too tightly_ ," but the words, he knew, would never come. And then he went silent, listening to the soft rustles of her hair shifting as he moved; the shaky breaths he took in and released against her.

It was hours before he moved again, before he spoke softly to the woman atop him. He'd felt the sun set through the window at his right, its slight warmth on his skin giving way to the cool of night, and he'd heard the footsteps of those avoiding the scene in the living room – giving him the space to grieve because they had to prepare for what came next. The Doctor thought back to the time he spent alone on that cloud after Amy and Rory and he looked to Clara, her head rested peacefully in the crook of his arm, and he smiled.

"It won't be the same," he allowed, "I know you wouldn't want that for me."

 _Go on then_ , he could imagine her teasing.

"You'd want me to find someone else," he told her simply with a nod.

 _Better make them a good one_.

"The best, eh, Clara?" He chuckled.

 _Who's better than me?_

"Of course, no one's better than you," he huffed. "Egomaniac."

 _Says the egomaniac._

He could feel Vastra watching him as he continued to whisper to the imaginary voice in his head and he saw the woman turn her wife away. The Doctor understood Vastra understood this loss and he bowed his head to touch it to Clara's, moaning quietly for her, "I love you, I have always loved you," and just as Vastra approached, he whispered weakly, "I'm sorry I never told you."

Clearing her throat, she chanced to speak carefully, "Doctor, I understand this is difficult, but we really should consider what we're to do with her body." The words were harsh, even at her softest tone, and she could see the anger hiding in the bloodshot eyes that slowly rose to meet hers. Just behind the fierceness though, Vastra could see the grief sinking in – she'd been watching it wash over his old body for hours, inch by agonizing inch.

The Doctor's jaw clenched and he gave a simple nod, and then a sniffle, and then a pitiful laugh. "Her body," he stated.

He looked to a spot on the wall to his left and Vastra watched the slow breaths he took, wondered whether his mind was working through a thousand thoughts, or void of thought altogether. " _Doctor_ ," she almost whispered.

"I have to take her to her father, it was what she wanted – it is what's _right_ ," he supplied plainly. Then he looked down at her, the fingers of his right hand lightly drifting up to the edge of the tear in her blouse, hovering there a moment before moving away as if burned. "The one thing a father should never have to see – the mutilated corpse of his own child," he scowled angrily before his face contorted and Vastra could see his grip on Clara tighten for just a moment – because he'd thought of a way to avoid that, but the very idea made his hearts sting.

 _It's ok, Doctor – set me ablaze like a dying star on a distant horizon._

"No," he muttered, "No, we'll not."

 _Doctor…_

"Stop," he spat.

"Doctor," Vastra shouted.

He moved then, limbs numb and shaky, and he set Clara down, a whimper escaping as he finally released her and he stumbled backwards to stand, one hand landing heavily on his hip, the other pushing into the fluff of grey waves atop his head. He gestured, "Either I tell her father she was impaled fighting a rogue band of Silurians on a planet he's never heard of in the future, thus trying to convince him that his daughter has spent the past few years of her life travelling around time and space with this old buffoon," his hands came together tightly, knuckles touching his nose for a moment, before they came apart and he finished, "Or I conspire with UNIT to fabricate a death that involves a fire to conceal the truth. Continuing the lies to her father that she began – her legacy ending without the honor she deserves. Her death becomes an accident. A _happenstance_."

Shifting on his feet, he shrugged, and Vastra watched his lips press into each other before he pulled them between his teeth. His eyebrows rose and then he let out a breath in a burst and gestured to Clara, some thought weighing on him before he gave an angry shout.

"She _deserved_ better," the Doctor growled.

"I know," Vastra responded.

"She died saving a species from _extinction_."

He turned away, right hand lifting, fingers splaying and then coming together in a fist he tucked under his left bicep as he crossed his arms at his chest. He nodded and repeated on a whisper, mostly to himself, "She deserved better."

Vastra watched the smile that seemed more like a grimace as he began to pace, occasionally twisting to look at Clara on the ground, her skin beginning to turn ashen as death worked its way through her. Vastra inhaled sharply and looked to the man who was now standing over them, frozen in a blank stare down at Clara before his eyes reddened again. They filled quickly, tears dropping without blinking, and Vastra slowly stood across from him.

"What will you do?" She asked.

"I don't…" the Doctor began, almost as if the air had left his lungs. As if the thoughts had left his mind. Then he looked to Vastra and she could see how the very action of realigning his gaze upon someone else affected him, as though he felt he was betraying the woman lying beneath them. And then he hardened, lips curling inward for just a second before he bent to lift Clara back into his arms.

 _Be a pal, Doctor, and take me home, will ya_?

"I'll do what has to be done," he told Vastra.


	32. Chapter 32

He registered that her lips were pressed delicately against his, and he could hear the small intake of breath as she pulled away, shocked at the action. The taste of tears lingered on his tongue and he knew without looking that they were both at fault. He could feel them on his cheeks, warmly rolling slowly along the stubble there and he could hear her small sniffle as he remained frozen in front of her. Had he pulled her towards him, he wondered, or had she inched forward on instinct?

Soothing his sadness with her simple gesture.

Eyes opening slowly, he looked to her, staring back up at him. Her dark eyes were burning red, cheeks were lined with the paths of her own tears, and she looked at him with such empathy, it struck his hearts and emptied him of air. His fingers began to slip away, but she raised her hands to grip gently at his wrists, holding him so his palms landed on either side of her bare neck, feeling both the warmth and the heavy pulse there. So very alive, he thought with a sigh.

Dropping his forehead to hers, he took a long breath and laughed, then told her softly, "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize," she responded, voice shaky.

"I shouldn't have kissed you," he elaborated.

Clara swallowed against the lump in her throat and repeated, "There's no need to apologize."

He shifted back to watch her smile shyly and his brow lifted as he watched her turn away with embarrassment and then he asked, "Why?"

Glancing back, she bit her lip and explained, "I could feel what you felt for her; I could feel how much you held onto hope that she'd make it. Even when it was impossible that she would." She nodded. "You don't know how to show your love very well, or at least in the usual ways, but I know you loved her."

Laughing, he released her to rub a knuckle to his nose, turning back to the graves. He thumbed her jaw line with the hand still pressed to her skin and lamented, "I would give anything to have traded places with her in that moment – to have died in her place."

She touched the back of his hand at her neck and teased, "Regenerate into a new foolish man for her?"

Shaking his head, his other hand dropped away from her and he admitted, "I would have ended my life." Then he glanced back to clarify, "For her, I would have ended."

"Does that make you afraid?" Clara questioned softly as he looked back to the grave, his hands folding in front of him, closing up to her, she knew.

The Doctor considered it – did that make him afraid? Did that make him afraid that he would have stepped in front of that blade for Clara? Or did that make him afraid that he could love again so deeply so easily that he would do so for another version of her? He looked to this echo and watched how she waited. Did that make him afraid to love her?

"Yes," he admitted. _For so many reasons._

"Of me?" She questioned.

Taking a long breath, he replied simply, "Yes."

They stared at one another in the silence of those woods and Clara understood two things: the Doctor _absolutely_ knew the pain of her loss, and the Doctor would lose his life _for her_. The man she'd spent years culminating a hatred for would, in _one_ flicker of just _one_ of his hearts, die in her place to give her the chance at the life taken from his Clara. And it wasn't _simply_ because of her face; it was far more complicated than that. She'd felt it in the moment after she cut free from the memory of her death. In those few simple seconds she'd been tethered to the Doctor and only the Doctor and she'd gotten a peek at his racing hearts and his feelings about her.

She was different from his Clara.

 _Inexplicably new_.

Something that sparked his curiosity and conflicted him deeply... because he knew he shouldn't feel as strongly towards her as he did. She was an echo, shouldn't she bring with her faded emotions? _Echoing_ in his heart? But she was her own person. Clara was the soldier he resented; the one he wanted to save. She was the one with the pent up aggression he wanted to ease. She was the one with the child he wished were his own.

And that was why she had kissed him.

Because she could feel that he would have loved her son with every fiber in both of his hearts. As ridiculous as it seemed to her now, she understood that the Doctor would have died for her son if he could have and it was something she couldn't say about the boy's own father. Clara looked into the light eyes that were studying her, searching for acknowledgement, and she swallowed roughly before taking a step towards him, reaching up to gently grip at the fabric of his jumper as her heart began to thud.

"It's not fair," she breathed, turning her eyes to the ground. "These feelings I have are unfair." She glanced up at him, brow furrowing, and asked, "Are they my own, or remnants of her in me?"

His shoulders shifted in an almost imperceptible shrug as he uttered, "They are what you make them, Clara."

"That's not fair," she spat, but the words lacked conviction, and then she asked, "What would you make of them, Doctor?"

Grin faint on his lips, a tiny spark of hope Clara knew, he reached out a hand and waited, and when Clara took it, he exhaled to say, "Everyone has a finite number of days – even myself. Should we waste them with questions?"

Her hand slipped down to grip at his palm, eyes closing against the feel of his fingers shifting, palpating, and she nodded, stepping forward into him, looking up just before she met his lips again. Uncertainty lingered as she dropped back to look up at him – to see the way his eyes remained shut and his features sat, placid on his face. Trying to figure it out himself, she knew, and she inched up again with less timidity. Clara pushed past his lips and found him eager to respond, his hand grabbing for her waist.

Body pressing into hers, the Doctor pulled Clara closer, hearing her soft moan, and he broke the kiss to shift his lips to her cheek and then her jaw and then her neck and he could feel her breath heavy against his ear, heard her softly say his name just before her temple nudged into him. His fingers gripped at her and he tasted her shoulder and then he shifted back and laid his forehead there, gasping for breath as he concentrated on the way her fingers dug into his back, holding tightly to him, urging him to continue.

Because she _wanted_ this?

Or because she was desperate for any sort of affection.

An actual _distraction_.

He took a step away from her, stumbling slightly, disoriented as he turned and pressed his hands into his sides, trying to breathe as he stared at the bodies in the grave. She was afraid of that death. Clara had held what she'd believed to be pure love in her hands and it had been taken from her twice, forcefully, angrily, cruelly, _unfairly_ , he knew, and now she couldn't wrap her head around the explanation for the Doctor's immediate fondness for her, nor her fondness for him, but she saw an inkling of a chance to have that love again, and she _knew_ it would end the same way.

Except it would be her in that grave.

He turned to see her rubbing at her temples. Her lips were puffy, her face blushed, her eyes filling with easy tears as she avoided his stare. Embarrassed? Confused? He wasn't sure, but he was feeling both emotions himself, trying to remind himself that they had to storm into UNIT and get his Tardis. All could go well and they could disappear into the time vortex, or he could be left mourning again. Maybe it would be easier if he didn't let himself get too close.

"Stop looking at me like that," she finally shouted.

He waited, brow creasing painfully.

"Like I've got one foot in that grave already," Clara explained. She dropped her palms against her thighs and released a sigh as she looked to him, calmly stating, "You're convinced I'm going to die helping you get your Tardis, but what if I live?"

"Then we travel," he stated with a confident nod.

"And this?" She gestured between them. "Are we not going to address it, this weird _thing_ we have?"

He dropped his own hands, and then shrugged. "How would _you_ propose we deal with this weird _thing_ ," he repeated, his own hands waving emphatically between them.

"Firstly, stop calling it a _thing_ ," she told him bluntly, lips pursing as she frowned.

He pointed, "You called it a _thing_ first."

"Yes, but from you it sounds like a thing and not a _thing_."

"That makes no sense." The Doctor threw his hands up and did a half turn away from her before turning back and calling, "You're preposterous!"

"You're insane!" She bellowed back.

They stared at one another for a minute, and then the Doctor began to smile. Clara watched his lips turn up awkwardly and she felt her own twitch upwards in response. And then he laughed. It was a strange sound, especially standing next to a grave in which lay two dead bodies, but it continued to gurgle up from inside him, louder and louder until he was doubling over in amusement she didn't quite understand. Clara huffed at him and then she giggled softly herself. Softly at first, but as he lowered himself to the ground to sit, hands landing on his knees, her giggles turned into full laughter.

The whole situation was ridiculous, she knew.

And maybe she should laugh.

Carefully lowering herself beside him, their laughter dying out into panting breaths, Clara clapped a hand on his thigh momentarily before clasping her hands together in her lap, staring off into the distance with him. She couldn't explain how she felt in that moment. It was a strange mix of mourning and happiness and confusion and she supposed that's what travelling with the Doctor was. _Would be_.

"We're going to make a pair, aren't we, Clara," he finally stated confidently.

"Seems we already do," she responded boldly.

"Do we?" He teased, shifting sideways to give her a playful look.

One she mirrored as she told him, "That's our thing, isn't it."

"Define this thing," he prompted.

Clara looked out into the woods and she sighed, " _Simpatico_." She chuckled and then explained, "Out in the universe there are a dozen Doctor's all zipping about through time, all coming across an infinite number of Clara's and maybe they don't all cross paths. Maybe they don't all really get to know one another." She glanced at him, "Maybe some Clara's die and those Doctor's move on out of necessity." She sighed again, "But we're always in simpatico with one another, no matter the Doctor; no matter the Clara."

"Simpatico," he repeated quietly, left hand held out to her.

She took it and leaned into him, repeating again, "Simpatico."


	33. Chapter 33

The Doctor buried the bodies while Clara sat watching on sadly. Once the dirt was piled into a dark moist mound, he looked skyward at the clouds that threatened to open over them and then he sighed to look back down at the leaves crumpled beneath his feet and the shovel that bent them into the ground. They hadn't said any words for these people – not really – and it felt wrong, so he whispered quietly in Gallifreyan, 'a silent prayer' humans would call it, but it was merely an _apology_.

For not knowing about this war; for not being able to stop it.

For the horrors they felt in their final moments.

He looked to Clara, staring at the grave in a daze, no doubt her own experience with her husband on her mind. It had to have felt like the end of her world, he knew. A man she'd loved – a man she'd loved enough to marry and consider running away with to start family and live a normal life – turning a gun on her unexpectedly and firing with the pure intention of taking her life with his. The Doctor dragged the shovel towards her as he moved to stand beside her, waiting until she was shaken from whatever memories she was lost in.

The Doctor wouldn't ask, he didn't dare.

"His last thoughts," she finally said, her voice almost inaudible as it was carried away by the increasing winds starting to turn the leaves and twist her hair, "Beyond all of the confusion of those moments and the pain he was feeling, were probably that while he didn't know how to forgive her, he _still_ loved her."

"In spite of it?" He questioned

She glanced up at him and gave a weak smile, "In spite of it."

The first droplets of rain smacked against them and Clara pulled herself to her feet slowly, careful about her leg and with a hand clasped inside his. He could see the rest hadn't done her good as she limped along with him, smiling against the aches in the healing muscles and he gave her the shovel to use as a crutch, watching the way she frowned as she used it, but didn't like it. And he understood that she was thinking about how she should have died that day.

Two inches and she would have been buried in this time, just like his own Clara had been buried in hers, and neither would have deserved that death. He thought to her wrists then and how if she hadn't called her mother... the Doctor turned away as she glanced at him and he could see her frown out of his peripheral – knew that he was thinking about her mortality and how many times it had already been in peril. She took a long breath and looked to the cabin in the distance.

The rain thickened, rolling in like a sheet and they both shivered, frozen by the water. He wanted to move faster, but he knew she shouldn't, so he held a hand out and watched her look to it in confusion before she smiled weakly and took it with an awkward glance up at him. He wanted to tell her that was the secret, just as he'd told his Clara – _hold hands and never let go_. He wanted to promise her everything, like he should have his Clara. But he remained silent as they trudged the rest of the way, moving up the steps as lightning cracked the sky, and entering the cabin just as the thunder shook the ground.

Her body was trembling and he could hear her teeth clatter as she made her way to the dead fire, grabbing at wood from the pile beside to stack in as he kicked off his trainers and went to the kitchen, readying oatmeal because it seemed like the quickest and warmest option. The last thing either of them needed was to get sick from freezing rains.

There was a sloppy smack and he turned to see her tugging the throw from the couch, draping it over her bare shoulders and he knew – she'd stripped herself of the soaked clothes to warm herself by the small fire she was now poking at. Looking to his own clothes, he frowned because he should have changed first. He chuckled, feeling the jumper sticking to his skin and rubbing his mostly healed wounds. He was concerned with warming her belly, he knew, and his eyes closed.

His first worry was her.

Even as an echo.

Moving towards her minutes later with a steaming set of bowls, he listened to the way his clothes sloshed and as he handed her the oatmeal, he looked to her pile of clothes, then down at her, staring up at him. He could see the paleness of her naked body through the opening in the throw and he frowned as he saw the way her lower lip shook as her eyes glistened in the light of the fire. A small fear he didn't understand sat in those eyes and he watched her turn away, gaze dropping to the bowl as she picked her spoon up with a limp hand.

"You should get out of those clothes," she told him weakly, and he could hear the tears thick in her voice.

The Doctor took a long breath, remaining still for a moment as he watched her eat. Her right leg laid straight, foot extended towards the fire, but her left was tucked into the throw for warmth. Her shoulders were slumped in some sort of defeat he couldn't comprehend, and he set his bowl down gently to pull the jumper up over his head and let it slap down onto the pile. They could worry about it later, he knew, as he continued to peel away the layers, finally dropping his pants and glancing around to find a second throw to wrap around himself before picking up his bowl to begin eating slowly.

Clara was already halfway through hers, each bite mulled over as she pushed the contents around.

"What is this?" He questioned, gesturing at her. "This thing with the eyes – you do it often, every version of you – staring through instead of at, pondering without _actually_ questioning. Do you know what that secrecy does to the people around you?"

She smiled, "Mostly they don't care."

The words were numbing and he watched her eat the last of her food, setting the bowl down away from her to pull the throw tightly around her. The Doctor put his own bowl down, watching her a moment before telling her quietly, "Clara, I care about what's bothering you."

Looking to him, she admitted, "I'm scared."

"That you'll die," he said on a nod.

"That I'll die," she repeated, lips pushing together to shake. She shrugged, "That we'll go to UNIT and we'll manage to get through the front gates and I'll die and we'll have accomplished nothing. Charlie's death will have meant nothing. My life..." she trailed, throat closing up against the words.

"Will have meant nothing," he finished for her, watching her nod before he sighed and told her honestly, "Clara, no matter what happens, everyone's life has meaning. Sometimes," he sighed, "Sometimes that meaning isn't as easy to find; sometimes it's damn near impossible, but every living thing in the universe has an impact."

She breathed a laugh weighed with sarcasm.

"Clara," he sighed, then repeated, " _Every living thing_ in the universe has an impact."

Nodding slowly, she thought about it and about how she didn't truly believe it, but she understood that he did, and she envied that. Over two thousand years old and the Doctor still valued life... he valued the _possibility_ of _her_ life so much he risked his to get to her. He valued her life – maybe he could teach her how, she thought as she shifted. Clara moved closer to him, her throw abandoned as she maneuvered awkwardly to sit between his legs, shifting herself into his chest as he wrapped his throw around the both of them.

It should have felt strange, naked in the arms of this naked man, but Clara felt _comforted_. His legs folded carefully underneath her knees and she leaned back into him, resting her head against him to continue to look to the fire. She felt _secure_. His arms had circled her, fingertips resting on each of her shoulders to hold the throw over her to keep her warm and they rubbed slowly at her skin, massaging at the tense muscles there to try to ease them of their burden and she felt something she hadn't thought herself deserving of in a quite a long while.

She felt _loved_.

And unlike the denial she'd forced upon her heart with Caroline, Clara allowed herself to accept the feeling now. It might be her last chance to, she understood painfully, and she closed her eyes to revel in it. To let it still her body and soothe her aching. She smiled because it worked. The hammering of her heart slowed and the trembling of her limbs calmed and she simply laid against him. Letting herself trust him completely.

The Doctor's hearts were thudding away peacefully against her back and she could feel the scar tissue he'd already developed at the center of his chest. Smooth, but rigid, pressed firmly into her as a reminder that he'd been so concerned about her decisions that day that he hadn't stopped to think of the possible consequences of his own. With a shy smile, she wondered if that's why they died for him – _someone_ had to think about the Doctor while he was putting everyone's wellbeing ahead of his own.

Clara took a long breath and she felt his arms wrap tighter, as though he imagined she needed it and she turned to look at the way he was peering down at her. Eyes softened, lips touched with amusement, utterly infatuated with her and yet, she could feel him lying flaccid against her lower back. She watched him curiously, and she understood that however he chose to define his relationship with his Clara, it had little to do with sexual attraction and all to do with a deeper bond they'd forged through their time together. Had they been forging that same bond over their own time together?

From the moment she'd laid eyes on him in that dark building, she'd felt some connection between them and it'd been growing stronger day by day. It had been difficult to hate him and now she found it difficult to fight the other overriding emotion and she wondered if it was worth the fight. Because it was an emotion she'd battled with for a very long time, only allowing it in glimpses but it'd never come with this much strength.

She shifted against him and looked to him as she asked quietly, "Would you make love to me?"

"Clara," he warned, "I won't be your distraction."

With a timid smile, she admitted, "No, _no_ , it's not _that_ – I've been distracting _myself_ for quite some time against this," she nodded, "This… this would be an _acceptance_."

"Of us," he stated curiously.

"Of us," she assured.

He stared at her a moment longer, trying to gauge her through that simple look – trying to work out whether she was telling the truth, or searching for that diversion again – and then he lowered his lips to her shoulder in a delicate kiss of consent that shocked her heart. His hands slipped from her shoulders and the throw fell away, but the flames of the fire warmed them.

Clara submitted to him willfully, and she felt her head swim as he gently laid her down, tasting his way over her. He kissed her lips softly, carefully, and Clara reached up to push her fingers through his dampened fluff of hair, moaning as she brought him down atop her. The rain outside rushed over the rooftop in droves, but Clara could only hear his breathing against the beating of her heart.

His hands roamed knowingly, caressed at her breasts and waist delicately and then slid smoothly over her stomach and nestled between her legs, long forefinger turning a measured circle at her until she gasped against his mouth and lifted her left foot to hook around his backside, urging him into her. His mouth moved to her neck and Clara cried out softly, hearing him chuckle as he kissed at her collar bone and then paused, looking to the scar at her chest. His breath was hot against the space, and then he offered it a kiss.

An apology, she felt.

As though he were responsible for that pain.

His mouth trailing over her stomach, following the path his hand had taken, and Clara arched her back as he inched backwards, his left hand cupping around her right thigh, holding it still as he kissed just above the wound, and then around it, each touch of his lips to her skin sending a jolt up through her body. She glanced down to see his eyes peering up at her, his cheek just beside her thigh and she gave him a small nod, dropping back as he breathed hotly over her and then took her into his mouth to give her a light suckle.

She shouted then, reaching down to find his hair again as he continued to lap at her, each stroke of his tongue bringing her closer to climaxing until he stopped, crawling his way over her as she breathed heavily, eyes crushed shut, mouth half open. Clara could feel his weight slowly settle onto her and she felt his lips brush against hers as he slipped leisurely into her, testing her arousal with his until he was satisfied enough to begin rocking his hips into her.

Eyes blinking open, she looked up into his, and then reached up to take his face in her palms, thumbs brushing at the sweat glistening there and she smiled, curling her body into his, ignoring the ache in her right leg to widen herself for him. She watched his eyes drift shut and he dropped slightly, his temple pressing wetly against her cheek, but then he lifted again, and she almost laughed because she realized he wanted to see her come. He wanted to know he'd satisfied her.

And the thought stirred a fire in her stomach that slowly crawled downward and then exploded on a heavy thrust of his hips. She shouted, her body bucking up slightly and she felt his arm around her right leg, keeping it from moving too quickly, but her left wrapped around his buttock and she slid her foot along the inside of his thigh as she released a shuddered breath against the slow, but steady pulse of his body into hers.

"Doctor," she managed to groan, and on those two simple syllables, he fell upon her with a grunt of his own, spilling himself into her as he kissed up her neck and then found her lip again.

Just as before, they brushed delicately, as though he could hurt her, and she smiled against those gentle kisses, laughing when he rolled and pulled her up atop him, his hips still jerking up into her as she sighed and laid her head to his chest to hear his heartbeats thudding away. Clara's left hand trailed circles over his chest until his body went still and then she closed her eyes. She allowed the exhaustion and the exhilaration and the thick rain drumming against the roof lull her into an easy sleep, her last conscious memory hearing the Doctor's contented sigh.


	34. Chapter 34

A new torrent of rain shook him from his daze and he looked to the woman lying at his side, her body molded to his, her injured leg resting atop his hip. The fire beside them was slowly going out and he sighed, not quite knowing the time. It could be afternoon or early evening; part of him didn't care, but another part knew she needed to eat and she needed her rest. Clara was human and she needed that human schedule. His fingertips trailed over her hip, hand landing atop her thigh and he heard her giggle softly. Felt the vibrations of those soft breaths against his ribcage.

"Ah," he sighed, "So you are awake."

Her hand shifted over his chest, forefinger tracing his scars, and she nodded, glancing up at him as she rested her palm on his stomach, telling him quietly, "Just tired." Eyes darting in the direction of the window, she added, "Probably just the rain."

With a gentle smile and a grip of her flesh, he asked, "How long has it been since you let yourself relax?"

"Like this?" She questioned, looking to his short nod and his waiting eyes. "A few years," she admitted, and then she lamented guiltily, "Not since before Charlie."

The Doctor understood – she hadn't even let go in that way with her flatmate and she knew now the woman had deserved better and felt terrible about it. "Do you still _want_ to travel?" The Doctor asked. When she looked back at him, he suggested, "I could get you back to Caroline; I could help get you both to safety once I have my Tardis – you could live a normal life."

Her breath was hot on his chest as she exhaled a long sigh and she shook her head, telling him bluntly, almost angrily, "I don't want a normal life."

"Yes," he sighed, "Yes, you do. It's what you've wanted from the beginning."

Lifting up to look at him, she questioned, "Me, or Clara?"

With a smile, the Doctor nodded and replied knowingly, "You."

He could see the question in her eyes – _how did he know_? And also, did he mean _his Clara_ didn't? And he knew there was the underlying thought that maybe they both did; maybe they all did. He'd never considered it before, that Clara would prefer anything less than her life in the Tardis. She'd climbed aboard full time. She'd told him it was her decision.

" _This is my life now, Doctor – wherever you go for as long as you'll have me_."

They were words she'd spoken, dragging in a suitcase, dropping it to stare up at him because they both knew what it meant. There was no turning back for Clara, no desire to look upon the Earth in the same way she'd always looked upon it. Not after Danny; not after their dreams at Christmas. The Doctor knew she'd grow nostalgic, and he knew she'd want to visit – she still had family there – but he also knew she'd spent so much time holding onto that planet that her declaration meant she'd let go. She'd found something new to hold onto.

 _Him_.

Until the end of time.

"Most of the people who climb into the Tardis are doing so to escape something." He shrugged and looked to her, telling her bluntly, "You're running away from your life," then he continued, to the guilty frown she wore, "It's perfectly fine – I understand, you've had to deal with some terrible things and you should want that to change. It's human to want something better."

She nodded, and then laid her head back at his chest comfortably. "What of your Clara then? What was she running from?"

Chuckling, he sighed, "Everything, I suppose."

Looking to the wooden beams above them, he considered it, and then he looked to Clara, who wasn't quite asking for an elaboration, but he knew she wanted one. Wanted to know she wasn't some subpar model of the original. The Doctor knew it's what she'd been thinking since he told her what she was – _who_ she was – that she would never measure up. He knew it'd been on her mind since they'd started discussing her joining him on his travels... That she would never be, in _his_ eyes, as good.

" _I'm not a bargain basement stand-in for someone else. I'm not going to compete with a ghost_."

He could see the look in her eyes clearly then. It seemed so long ago, but it was just a few years. He sighed and looked to the Clara clinging to him now. She'd given up playing that game Clara had held onto for so long – that she didn't feel anything for him. He appreciated it more than this Clara would ever realize, though he knew in his heart it was unfair to her because he was using her as a replacement in a lot of ways. He'd loved her as he'd loved his Clara and he'd forgotten for a moment that it wasn't.

Shaking the thought away, he sighed and told her quietly, "Her mother died when she was a teenager. Just as the arguments and the rebellion might have started, the last bits of angry separation from childhood, she was forced to grow up." He sighed. "She made sure her father didn't fall to pieces; kept the household in order with him. She finished out her schooling, got herself a degree and an itch to travel – her mum's fault, not mine." He smiled when Clara laughed softly. "And then a family friend passed. She stepped in, helped to care for the children." He took a long breath, "She put her life on hold for them and then I found her, or she found me, or we found each other – it's quite a complicated matter. But we made an agreement that allowed her to her keep her life and her responsibilities and still travel and she made sure I didn't lose my head in exchange," he glanced down at her, "That's literal and figural – I was quite a loose cannon in my previous regeneration. Surprised I didn't lose my head."

Clara bowed her head to laugh, this time openly, and he enjoyed the feel of her body shaking into his in amusement – the Doctor watched her as she settled back and then peered up at him. He'd missed that tranquility on that face, and then she asked curiously, "I know she wasn't your wife, but when did she become _yours_?"

"Oh," he laughed, "She was never _mine_."

Her eyes rolled and her hand tapped his chest as she sighed, "You know what I mean."

The Doctor tried to pinpoint the moment, some singular moment he understood Clara had determined she would never leave him, but there didn't seem to be. From the second she realized he wasn't a threat to her – which he knew was an understandable thought given he'd shown up at her doorstep hopping about like a crazed monk – she seemed to be taken with that spot at his side. He smiled, remembering that first breakfast, and how they'd argued over what to have.

" _You want a strawberry milkshake at nine in the morning_?" She'd asked, eyes narrowing.

He'd gestured wildly back towards the general direction of the Tardis, " _In case you've forgotten, it was night time just ten minutes ago_!"

" _Fair point_ ," she'd stated, small toggle of her head.

He grinned stupidly at that memory, at the way they'd fought over who ate what of their breakfast, and how she'd giggled when he'd dunked two straws into the milkshake. " _Careful_ ," she'd warned, " _People might think we're on a morning date_."

The Doctor had flushed. Flushed worse than he'd flushed since River's worst. And then he'd tried _his_ worst, leaning into the table to jut his chin out at her to scoff, " _So what if they do_?"

And he'd seen the blush that teased her cheeks just before she'd grabbed hold of the milkshake to take a sip and re-direct the conversation as he leaned back to look back at the computer, " _Are you an alien_?"

With a small sigh, he looked to Clara and shrugged, explaining, "I don't know if I ever felt she wasn't. From the day that I met her, it felt as though she'd always been there, just by my side, and I was distrustful of that for too long of a time – wasted too much time in that incarnation distrustful of that feeling in my gut. I wished we'd had more time then, more time like the way it was after the time stream."

"What was it like then? After?"

He breathed, as though relieved, and replied, "For a time, it was wonderful." He smiled down at her to tell her, "Without all of those questions and all of those doubts, we simply enjoyed each other openly as we travelled about." He laughed. "She got a teaching job; I spent more time dashing about on my own, searching for my home – it's still out there, frozen in a bit of space somewhere." With a shrug, he finished, "And then we'd meet up, exchange stories, go find some new place to see together."

"She was so your wife," Clara said on a low chuckle. "Day jobs, rendezvous at night..." her words trailed and she looked up to him again, asking softly, "Did it change – when you did?"

Grin fading, he nodded, "For a time, yes." He looked into her earnest eyes and offered, "We fell back into that world of distrust. I was a different man, less kind for a while, and it took a while to find our balance, but we did."

"Was it the same, after you found balance?"

"Nothing's ever the same once things change," he told her, watching the knowing smirk lift her lips.

Clara propped herself up on her elbow to look down at him, her fingernails scratching lightly against his stomach, and her brow furrowed as she began, "But were you together out of obligation or..."

"Oh no," he interrupted, "No, it wasn't anything of the sort. Our relationship had simply _changed_. I suppose you could say it regenerated alongside us, constantly evolving as I settled into my new skin." He smiled and elaborated, "It wasn't riddled with flirtation and playful innuendo as it had been before, it was confusing for a time, and she distanced herself from me as best she could, but we were too heavily invested in one another to part ways. Too..." his left hand came up and Clara sighed, gaining his attention.

"In love," she finished for him. He watched her as she asked, "Is it that difficult for you? To just say it?"

The Doctor stared for a moment, then stated sharply, "I could ask the same of you."

Her eyes turned away, instantly watered, and she nodded, "I didn't tell him enough."

 _Charlie_ , he knew, not her husband.

Her voice wavered as she admitted, "It was hard, after Tom, even with my own son. My mum would tell me all the time that I had to tell him – I had to tell him or he wouldn't _know_ – but I know my son knew I loved him. I loved him so much..." she choked on the words and looked to the Doctor. "I loved him," she told him firmly, eyes resolute.

"I know you did, Clara." He assured. "When I saw your memory, I could feel that," he told her honestly, hand at her back pulling her back down atop him to hold her. "I could feel it easily; Charlie knew, and every time he said your name, it was his way of returning the sentiment."

Her lips crushed together and she spat, "I created a child who couldn't say it because of my inability to."

"That doesn't mean he didn't feel it," he told her, shaking his head. "Sometimes it's hard for us to express how we feel in words, sometimes it comes out in actions, gestures, even in silent company. None of those things diminish or invalidate the feelings conveyed." But he understood her pain. Clara had admitted to him once that she'd told Danny she'd loved him, but that the words didn't hold their true value – that she'd placated him and she'd tried to trick herself by saying them, and by the time she said the words and _meant_ them, he was gone.

"I want to say it when I _feel_ it," Clara said then. "I want you to _know_ it."

He set a finger to her lips to stop her from speaking because he wasn't ready to hear those words from her lips any more than he was sure she was ready to say them. His hand dropped back to hold the one she'd settled on his chest and he watched her look up at him with understanding. And he told her softly, "Let's just lie quietly a bit longer."


	35. Chapter 35

They created a routine over the next month as her leg continued to heal. They took a morning walk in a random direction and then had lunch in the woods at noon. The Doctor and Clara took turns detailing little bits of their lives on those walks, and he found she wasn't all that different from his Clara after all. It was all down to circumstances, as it always was. The war had enlisted her father not long after he married her mother and she'd grown up in a household with a school teacher and a soldier.

Through her mother, she learned to love books and writing and children and art; through her father, she learned to appreciate order and duty and pride... and American football. Her childhood had been fairly typical, he thought, in spite of the war. Her grandmum on her mother's side came to live with them after her granddad's death and she was sheltered as much as possible from the grim realities of the outside world. Her schooling had been private and her marks had been top notch.

And then her father died.

It had been Clara's first real casualty of war, her father's vehicle hit by a missile. " _There hadn't been enough of him left to really say goodbye to_ ," she lamented, and he could see that despite her casual tone, it still pained her and he knew that every similar incident she'd encountered as a soldier brought with it a memory of her father and how his body might have been mangled. She didn't divulge whether she'd seen him and he wouldn't ask. " _We had the funeral, we held our chins up, accepted his pension, and we moved on_."

Clara went on to more schooling with the intentions of becoming a teacher, like her mother, but she was at the age of recruitment and suddenly it didn't seem like such a terrible idea. She clashed with her mother about it and, in a moment of rebellion, she enlisted. " _In my mind_ ," she told the Doctor, " _I was going to do the five years – it was a program, you do five years of service and you can 'retire' or continue on, but you held that honor of having served. I'd had friends already there and it seemed like a good idea. And then Tom happened, and then Charlie was born, and the benefits were there, and then it just seemed like a good fit. I was doing well, advancing, we were happy_..."

And then Charlie had died.

" _UNIT told me I could get revenge; they told me I could transfer into their special projects division, instead of being dishonorably discharged because of my suicide attempt... into one project in particular: to find you. I'd known about it, they'd been talking to Tom already – I guess because of me, because I looked like her_."

It seemed easy. She talked of her training and how they'd offered her psychological help and how she thought she'd been given everything she needed to know. And then one day she told him about that day on the street when a confident man strode up to her to say he was the Doctor.

" _There was my target. Handsome young man wearing a sharp suit and a vortex manipulator on his wrist scanning as Gallifreyan_." Clara had looked up at him sadly, " _He was your friend_."

" _The Master_ ," the Doctor had told her with a sigh. " _Well, he was Missy for a time, but I suppose she picked up a new face on a new regeneration – thought he could pass as me, gain something. He was always looking to gain something_." He frowned, " _Maybe my attention_."

" _He said he was you and I had my doubts, because I thought you were smarter. Everything I'd read told me you were smarter than sauntering up to the enemy_."

" _Well_ ," he'd laughed and pointed, " _I have done as much_."

Clara picked at the grass and shrugged, " _I doubted it was you, but Wallace told me to take my shot and I did. I emptied my gun into him and watched his eyes stare back in terror because they were explosives embedding into his chest cavity_." She clenched her jaw and finally stated, " _He knew there would be no regenerating from that_."

The Doctor tried to assure her he wasn't upset at her, he tried to distract her by naming an owl on a nearby tree and calling it over to show her its wings, but he'd cried that night after she'd fallen asleep. His oldest friend, probably just as baffled by this unwarranted war as he'd been. Caught off guard in a scheme finally too big for him. He'd looked out at the moon and the stars and he'd whimpered, " _I'm sorry, my old friend_."

The last year she'd lived with regret over that moment, regret she couldn't shake despite the commendations and the promotion and the new office with new responsibilities. They closed the file on the Doctor, but Clara had never been able to lock it away. " _Because killing the supposed killer of your son_ ," the Doctor had told her, " _It doesn't bring your son back_."

He tried to hammer that point home, if she was still having thoughts about revenge on UNIT. And she'd turned to look at him, a small smile lifting her lips to let him know she understood just before she told him, " _I know that now, Doctor_."

Hoping she'd given up that vendetta, he'd suggested they find more blackberries.

Unless the sky threatened rain, as it often did in the early evenings, searching for berries and nuts had become part of their walk back. The empty bag they'd brought their lunch in refilled with treats to use in their dinner, or to snack on, or feed Rudy, who'd taken to visiting them. He watched the forest for them, to warn them of dangers or other people, but it had been quiet.

He thanked them for burying the bodies.

Their walks back were mostly silent. Legs exhausted from the effort, more her than him, and when they arrived they'd carry in logs for the night because neither intended to head back out. Clara asked him, on the fourth night, if he grew bored of her and he'd laughed.

" _I could never bore of you, Clara Oswald_ ," he'd told her with a point of his finger. A finger which wagged up towards the ceiling as he glanced around, " _Of the cabin, yes, it disgusts me, but you_?" He smiled to her. " _Never you_."

She was afraid to tell him she thought he might be lying. His hands twitched when she wasn't watching and his mouth moved with unspoken words throughout the day. Some thoughts he wouldn't share with her that saddened her because she'd hoped they were getting closer. In truth, he was talking to Clara. He was muttering to a deceased woman about the new woman he'd met. He was telling her how that little piece of her was doing her best to fill the holes she'd left in his heart.

He was apologizing to Clara for falling in love.

And pretending he could hear her voice telling him, " _Please do, Doctor. Deeply and madly_." Because he knew his Clara would not want to be forgotten – her egomania would insist he remember her always – but she would want him to _love_ again. Clara would want him to _be loved_ again.

Their evenings, after dinner, a bath, quiet contemplation of their day and what they'd learned about each other, and his continued therapy on her leg, were spent lying together in the bedroom in the back of the cabin. Most nights she slept, too tired and sore to do much else. And on those nights the Doctor merely held her, stroking her back or her hair. Some nights he rested, dreaming of places he would take her and how her face would light up to see them.

Some nights she kissed at his chest and gave him a nudge with her knee and he made love to her until they were spent, eyelids drooping, and ready for nothing more than sleep. Those were the nights he missed Clara most; they were also the nights he felt closest to her. They hadn't been that way, not often, and it was because of his Clara that he was capable of being with this Clara intimately.

She took a long breath in her sleep and he looked down at her, seeing it was a content sigh and not one of an oncoming nightmare and he slowly slipped away from her, moving out to check on the fire with a throw pulled over his shoulders. The Doctor looked out at the moon and those stars and he leaned his head against the cold glass of the window, blinking against tears. He missed those stars and those planets and that blue box. He missed her sounds, her pulses and bells and roars and whistles. The Doctor missed the controls underneath his fingertips and he missed the feel in his chest when he moved her through the vortex.

Hands slipped around his waist and he jerked slightly, glancing down at the brunette hugging him from behind, the throw that had been covering the mirror in the bedroom all this time draped over her shoulders. She was leaning her head into his back, comforting him, he knew. Because he knew she knew his sadness. He could feel that sympathy warmly transferring to him and he smiled when she sniffled, half asleep against him.

"I miss the Tardis," he admitted, waiting to see if she would lift her head.

Instead she burrowed into his side, ducking her head underneath his arm and then laying it against his chest to listen to his hearts – she loved to listen to his hearts – and she sighed, "I know."

"Then you understand," he lamented.

She nodded, "I know."

Because he knew a small part of her was wondering if it were possible this could become their life. She'd alluded to it once or twice in the past few weeks. Speaking thoughts aloud about how they could survive, just the two of them, if they had to. The words had come with a small smile and a lowering of her chin, and he knew her well enough to know she was thinking just the two of them, _or three or four_... the Doctor told her the odds would be slim, but there were odds, and he did his best to reduce them. And she bluntly told him when she was menstruating, arguing against a walk and grumbling at him that she missed chocolate.

"Do you think you would ever stop travelling?" She asked him lightly.

He shrugged and then he wrapped his throw around her shoulders to envelop her in a hug, "I'd considered it once, when I thought my last incarnation was truly my _last_. I'd teased Clara about taking up bee keeping, but I'd thought about taking a wife and having a family – it'd be a lie if I said I didn't think on it occasionally."

Her head came up then, looking over the sadness in his eyes, and she stated, "But you would outlive us."

Smiling, he turned his gaze to her and repeated, "I would outlive you, but I might suffer that pain to have a family again – I could see children and grandchildren and great grandchildren." He laughed.

"But you got a new set of regenerations," she knew, and she sighed. "Too long for a wife; too long for that pain, and eventually that lineage becomes less of a family and more of a resentment."

He scoffed, "Nah, my family would never become a resentment – I would simply have to walk away after a few generations. A story passed down through child after child." He looked to her curious face and he reminded, "A parent should never have to bury their child, nor should they have to bury their grandchild, nor their great grandchild."

"Have you?" She questioned.

Taking a long breath, he looked out to that moon. "I lived on Trenzalore for three hundred years and yes, I buried the children and the grandchildren and even the great grandchildren of the people there. It was at once the most grand experience and the most terrible."

She understood him avoiding the question and she simply nodded, accepting his answer, arms gripping tightly to him. "The fire's going out," she whispered.

Turning to look to the small flickers of flames crackling around blackened wood, he sighed, "And that's what I came out here for," as Clara's small laugh warmed his heart.


	36. Chapter 36

A month turned into two in the blink of an eye. So much so that it surprised the Doctor as he realized it, counting the days on his fingers as he looked out at the forest. The leaves were growing in green and the rains had given way to sunshine and warmth and he leapt off the steps to stand on the mossy ground to examine a new growth of mushrooms that had sprung up overnight. Clara had gone off on her own hours before. New routine, she told him, she had to get back on her feet and in shape.

The statement had worried him because as her limp disappeared, the fire in her eyes had returned. He knew it was on her mind, festering during their time there: someone had to pay for Charlie's death. If she insisted on that revenge, he would find it difficult to allow her into the Tardis... not with new blood on her hands and murder in her heart. At least that's what he continued to tell himself.

In truth, he would probably drag her in kicking and screaming.

"Oh, _Clara_ ," he sighed at the foggy landscape.

She was a mile away, knife held firmly between her thumb and forefinger raised just beside her right ear, lifting higher as she measured the target hung sloppily from a tree. Her left arm came up slightly and she chucked the knife with a small grunt of effort, watching it cut into the cloth that hung there, embedding it into the wood with a thick smack. Frowning and biting her bottom lip, Clara knew she should be faster, but she was also distracted and a slight bit guilty.

If the Doctor knew she was having target practice with knives, he would lecture her about the implications and she knew he knew what she was planning. He didn't have to read her mind to know she was constantly lost in thoughts about how she would make them pay for her son's murder. Clara knew the Doctor was avoiding the subject because he hadn't mentioned UNIT or Charlie in weeks, he'd taken to talking to himself, muttering as he cooked, or waving his arms at trees in which birds sat, enraptured by his quiet speech.

He was talking to _her_ , Clara knew.

She knew she would never measure up to _her_.

Yanking the knife out of the tree, Clara stumbled backwards and groaned. Her limp had gone, but the wound had left her with a small annoying pain when she exerted herself too much – and she'd already done a five mile jog around the woods, terrain now entirely too familiar to her. Taking several steps away, she tapped the blade of the knife against her palm and looked to the thin scars on her wrists and she trailed the knife's tip along one, huffing a breath and knowing out here it would be easy to complete that death.

Just two quick swipes and she'd bleed out before she could get back to the cabin.

Shaking the thoughts away, she looked back to the target, now hanging awkwardly and she thought about how disappointed the Doctor would be if he found her dead in those woods. Disappointment was probably all he thought when he thought of her now, she knew, letting those vengeful thoughts overtake the promise of travel... because he was certain if she was going to continue on that path she would surely die, but if she went with him...

Clara chucked the knife roughly, too roughly, and she shouted when it missed entirely, clattering off a set of rocks several feet away. She turned a half circle, her hands coming up in fists at her temples before she growled and dropped them to slap at her thighs

"You _stupid_ old man," she barked.

Because he got into her head, even when he wasn't around, and she didn't know when what he thought became so important to her. Had it always been? She began walking towards the knife, stomping through the foliage and kicking up leaves angrily, stubbornly, thinking about how it actually meant something to her that he cared about her actions. The Doctor cared about her pain and he cared about her well-being and she plucked up the knife into her palm, gripping it tightly as she made her way back to her spot, stopping only to straighten the target.

Staring at it hanging there, she considered that the Doctor truly did care, and then she chucked the idea away because she knew – he only cared because of her face. He was only _there_ because of her face. He only helped her _because of her face_. The knife lowered to her side as her shoulders shook and she cried silently knowing she was trying to convince herself of a fact that simply wasn't true. He looked for her because she was a part of Clara, but he cared because he was the Doctor.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid old man," she muttered, left hand coming up to brush at her tears before she sniffed a long breath through her nose and turned towards where she knew he was standing. Clara could feel him staring into her, wondering what she was thinking and wondering what he could say to interrupt the moment. Wondering whether he should at all.

His hands twisted in front of him and he gestured, "I've been called worse, it's perfectly fine."

Clara laughed. Then she raised the knife to point at him a moment, asking, "How long have you known?"

"That you _still_ want to kill _everyone_ at UNIT?" He questioned, face contorting as he looked skyward before glancing back at her to sigh. "There are two moment in every day that you stop, _without fail_ , and think about Charlie, moments where your eyes soften in that memory and then harden in anger." He watched her, thinking about it before continuing, "The first is the moment you open your eyes and look up at me and you wish with all of your heart that he were there bouncing about in that bed with us because it's what every morning had become and every morning you wake without him you're reminded that he's not with you and how he was violently taken from you."

"And the second?" She asked quietly.

"That last moment in every day, when you stare blankly at a space that seems a hundred miles away where you think back to tucking him in at night, reading him a bedtime story as his eyelids droop shut over tired eyes, and pressing one last kiss into his forehead. It reminds you of the last time you'd done so, on an autopsy bed, to cold pale skin before you were ushered from the room by your mum and collapsed just outside." He watched her jaw clench and her eyes water and he watched her nod slowly and look away, embarrassed that he knew without her telling him.

Clara held the knife tightly and she asked, "What should I do then? Simply walk away?"

"Yes," he breathed.

"Do you walk away, Doctor?" She eyed him curiously. "Do you walk away when people are hurting and need help?"

He shook his head and took a step closer, seeing her left palm wrap around the blade. "Clara, this isn't people hurting and needing help – this is you wanting to murder to seek revenge, which is _understandable_. UNIT has done terrible things and they should be brought to justice, but this _isn't_ how you go about it."

"Do you even understand what they've done?" She spat. "This isn't _just_ about Charlie."

Nodding slowly, he stated, "I've given that quite a bit of thought, actually, and I'm wondering when the aliens invaded while you had your backs turned – or else I'm wondering when men became so calloused they'd wage a war to gain more power." He huffed, "But isn't that the history of mankind. _Invade_ and _conquer_."

Her breathing became heavier, considering it, and she told him quickly, "They've increased their numbers across Europe tenfold in the past five years alone – instituted bases all around the world and have anchored themselves into the militaries of every foreign country, creating militaries where there weren't already. All in the name of peace and protection and they've done so through lies and deceit and the deaths of innocent lives." Clara's hand slipped off the blade and the Doctor watched the blood fly as she swung an arm up to point out into the sky, "They've been allowed to infiltrate satellites and have become the world's top surveillance organization and could easily dominate the globe with a few strategic assassinations. Have probably already begun them over the years and we've turned a blind eye, being told they were insurgents attacking – _you_ attacking." She laughed roughly, "They say _you're_ trying to steer the course of history through these actions, but it's them, setting us all against each other..."

"And we can stop that, Clara," he breathed, interrupting her thoughts, hands held out towards her. "We can stop that with the spread of _information_ , not death – we can, aboard my Tardis, hack right into their systems and decimate them the _just_ way. Not striding into headquarters, guns blazing, hoping to take out as many people as possible." He pointed to her, watching her arm come down as the blood continued to drip from the wound she seemed oblivious to. "Innocent lives like yours would be lost."

"I don't care about my life!" She shouted, left palm slapping her blouse wetly, leaving a half a palm print in crimson across her chest.

"It's not about just _your_ life, Clara, don't be such an egomaniac!" he countered. "People _like_ you who believe they're fighting a grander cause; people _like_ you who've been deceived by them, they could die going in the way you want." He reached out and took her left wrist tightly. " _Allies_ , Clara – there are allies in UNIT that could help us contain those who've corrupted and desecrated an establishment that used to stand for good things with this sickness of power."

She softened, grimacing as she looked to the slice across her palm and the blood flowing from it. And then she whimpered, because she knew he was right. "How?" She questioned simply.

"We need a strategy – something we've been boldly and willfully ignoring while you heal and work out the mess in your head," he gestured with his free hand before looking to hers. "We need to get this cleaned and bandaged and we need to take a look at the Jeep parked behind the cabin."

"Why?" Clara asked, nodding.

He shrugged, "Well you sunk the helicopter – how else do you think we're going to get back to London?"

Inching closer to him, she took a short breath and then asked, "Are you ok to do this? To strategize?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" He asked, his voice softening as he watched the concern in her eyes.

She smiled, small and fleeting, and reminded him, "I'm not the only one who was healing."

He scoffed, "My wounds are fine."

"I didn't mean your physical wounds, Doctor," she chanced to say.

Turning away, he admitted, "It's easier for me – I have you."

"That's not fair," she shot, pulling her hand away. "You can't pin that on me – I can't _be_ her."

"I don't expect you to be," he responded quickly, gesturing for them to walk back towards the cabin. He didn't want to chance lake water on her wounds as she'd already gotten an infection once off it and another infection was the last thing they needed.

Clara hesitated, watching him take three steps and then turn back to look at her, worry in his widened eyes, and then she moved with him, taking his words and tucking them into the back of her mind. He didn't expect her to be like his Clara, not consciously, but occasionally he slipped. He spoke as if she were her, mentioning some _thing_ that had happened to _them_ and then recanting with an apology to explain. They were halfway back when she tapped at his elbow with her knuckles, gaining his attention.

"We need to come up with a strategy," she told him earnestly.

"To get my Tardis?" He questioned, a hint of doubt in his voice.

Clara nodded, smiling, and responded, "To get into UNIT."

He hung his head and nodded, saying nothing more and Clara understood very well what he was thinking. So long as they made the Tardis their main goal, with justice for what UNIT had done secondary after that fact, she might have a chance… she might make it into his blue box safe and alive to help him save the world. But if Clara chanced _revenge_ on UNIT for her son during that initial exploit, she would die. She lowered her head, not wanting to meet his occasional glance, because how could she not, if an opportunity presented itself, take that chance?


	37. Chapter 37

The rest of the walk back to the cabin was spent in silence and the Doctor knew she was now contemplating what she had to do. Making a list of _things_ , he thought to himself with a grin. First priority was getting her hand wrapped. If the Jeep was in need of repair, they would have to figure out how to get that done without any sort of real electricity – though he was sure he could finagle something for them. They would need to figure out where they were – but he had a sneaking suspicion she knew exactly where they were. They would need gas; theoretically she had cash in her personal back pack, one she'd not touched since they'd arrived.

He'd noticed; he hadn't asked.

If he had his Sonic, it would be easier.

" _You rely too much on that thing_ ," Clara had told him on more than one occasion. Of course she'd been right; she always was.

They arrived at the cabin and he worked on a late lunch while she cleaned her wound, hissing and grumbling on the couch with the first aid kit beside her. They were short on supplies, he knew, and he opened a cabinet to look in on the sparse cans there, the last bag of rice – they'd be leaving soon. He looked to the back of her head and felt his hearts drop in his chest, lifting a hand to touch the spot that ached and feeling the scar through his jumper. She could die again, he knew. Right before his eyes, he understood.

He had to take that chance.

To _save_ her.

"What's on your mind?" She questioned loudly, and he frowned just before she turned to look up at him, giving him those eyes – ones that knew exactly what he was thinking.

So he told her honestly, "You."

Chuckling to herself, she stood and began to walk towards him, questioning bluntly, "Me, or her?"

He smirked and repeated, "You."

She merely nodded and he understood that she didn't believe him. Considering her with a long sigh as she approached him and came to stand just next to him, looking to the blackberry jam he was smearing on more bread, beside some layered with a sort of peanut butter they'd made with the nuts they'd been collecting, he was saddened. She truly didn't believe he could separate out the echo from the woman who created her. Was there nothing he could say to convince her he hadn't?

His Clara was dead, he'd accepted that begrudgingly.

" _Now_ you're thinking about her," Clara told him knowingly, nudging him lightly with her hip. "You haven't talked about her in some time – do you..."

"No," he interrupted quickly. He glanced to the way she pursed her lips in frustration and turned away and he sighed, "It's not that I don't want to discuss her with you; I've merely chosen to move on."

Leaning away, brow rising, she stated angrily, "That quickly."

He slapped a jam covered bread onto a peanut butter covered one and nodded. "Best to do it quickly."

"Cheerful bloke, you are," she groaned, snatching the sandwich and walking away.

Closing the second sandwich, he gripped it in one hand and stalked after her, standing in front of where she'd dropped back onto the couch to take a bite and chew, her eyes drifting slowly up to him as he tried to put together a rational thought. An _explanation_ , he knew. It was difficult, looking at that face – as though she were angry at him for putting _her_ aside so swiftly for another. _Accusing_ him of forgetting _her_.

"I've lived for over two thousand years," he spat, body bending towards her.

"So you keep reminding me," she shot back.

"I've lost a lot of people," he said on an angry laugh.

"Good that," she grumbled, taking another bite and looking away.

"What," he stated, shoulders dropping before he flapped a hand at her, "What is this? It's indifference filled with anger – at what? What have I done _now_?"

She turned sharply and he straightened, "See _this_? You're talking to _her_ – _what have I done now_? _This_ time." Clara laughed. "Don't tell me you've moved on because you've never stopped thinking about her, or talking to her, you just won't talk to me about her."

He knelt in front of her, taking a rough breath and asking her softly, "And what would you like me to tell you, Clara? That I think of her? That I remember how she smelled and how her dainty steps tapped across the Tardis console space behind me? Or how I can still hear her voice sometimes, telling me that I'm a fool – guiding me from doing foolish things? What is it you want to know? That I _compare_ you? Is that what you're concerned about?"

"No," she told him, shaking her head, "It's not that, not entirely," she added honestly. Blinking away tears, she shrugged, "I know what this pain is, Doctor – I know what this loss means." She wiped at her left cheek with her bandaged hand and sighed, "I just thought I could help you."

His head lowered, ashamed, and he reached out for that injured hand, holding it delicately in her lap before he looked up at her and breathed, "I miss her."

"You should," she nodded, laughing lightly.

"You're so alike and so different – she would have been proud of you," he assured.

Dropping her head, she stated, "Probably not."

"Yes," he gasped. "Yes, Clara, she would have because you're a soldier, but you're fighting for what's right."

"Murdering people," she reminded, "That's what you said I'd be doing."

Eyes widening, he explained, "And what's why we can't go about it that way; that's why we have to find a better way."

Clara raised her head and sniffled and then she smiled when he reached with the knuckles of his other hand, still clutching a bent sandwich, to wipe at the tears on her right cheek. With a nod, she knew, "Her way."

Gesturing between them, the Doctor corrected, "Our way, Clara. You and me."

Laughing to herself, she nodded.

Shifting up to sit next to her, the Doctor told her quietly, "She'd have forgiven you," and his finger trailed along the scar on her left wrist. "She'd have understood."

Glancing up, she asked timidly, "And you?"

"Not my place," he told her politely.

Lips twisting, she accepted that answer and then inquired carefully, "Are you alright?"

The Doctor laughed at the question because he knew her meaning well. Clara understood what it was to lose the person you cherished most in the universe and Clara knew how that sat in one's heart. She absolutely knew he was not alright, but she was giving him the room to continue to lie to her and to himself about it, so he dropped his shoulders and sank back into the couch, taking a bite of his sandwich to look to her, watching him, taking a bite of her own.

Trying her best to be casual.

"I've been around for over two thousand years," he stated again, watching as she smiled shyly at his words before he continued, "And I've picked up a few companions along the way – friends, enemies, tin dogs." He leaned his head back a moment to laugh. "They've all left their unique marks on my hearts." He sighed. "Some good; some bad." He looked to her. "You're leaving yours now, Clara." Her lips dropped slightly and he understood that sadness – she thought she hurt him with her resemblance, but the truth was the opposite. "And afterwards... it's perplexing, the emotions."

Clara shifted next to him and she leaned into the couch, taking another bite to continue listening.

"Sometimes they leave of their own accord – those are the easiest – they just walk through those doors with a wave and a goodbye and I'm sad, but at ease with their decision." He nodded slowly, bottom lip pouting, "And some have that choice made for them. Circumstances that keep them from coming back. The sting of their departures, of having to accept their departures, it lingers, but they're alive." Laughing, he looked to her, "They can have lives."

"And then some die," Clara sighed.

"And then some _die_ ," he repeated, reaching for her hand as he stared up at the ceiling. "We were trying to save the native race of a planet against a rogue faction of Silurians that had gone out into the universe in search of a habitable new home for _their_ people. They'd gotten a touch of space-madness in the process – like cabin fever, only in space," he smiled before saying, "We were trying to help; trying to bring _peace_." The Doctor took a breath, seeing the memory clear in his mind. "A fight broke out and we were forced to partake," he looked to her, "We had no intentions of harming anyone, just getting to a bomb to disarm it because we had the technology to. And she did," he smiled. "The native species had gained the upper hand in the physical combat, outnumbering the Silurians, and we'd disarmed the weapon and that should have been it. Celebrations and conversations about rehabilitation for the so-called prisoners and then off into the stars."

" _My stars, Doctor_ ," he could hear her shouting, " _It actually worked_."

" _Oi_ ," he'd shouted back, " _Don't diss the Sonic_!"

Swallowing hard, Clara watched his eyes redden and then water over and she tightened her grip on his hand as he told her quietly, "Coward stabbed her in the back. It was all over and one bastard lizard decided to retaliate and cut her through with his blade." He looked to her and she watched his lips trembled, "She died in confusion and pain and finally... _acceptance_. She died in my arms, smiling up at me as though she were merely going down for a nap, and there was nothing I could do about it."

"I'm sorry about Clara," she told him honestly, sadly, with a set of her own warm tears streaking over her face as she watched him offer the smallest of grins.

He shrugged and then nodded, replying, "I'm sorry about Charlie."

She laughed, the words striking her heart with their sincerity, and she asked, "Does my face make it harder for you to mourn her?"

Shaking his head, he sighed, "Oh, Clara, quite the opposite – it should be that your face reminds me of her death at every step, but it's like those stars out there in the universe. I should look upon them at every turn and be bored to tears, but I see them through new eyes and they're alive again, bursting brilliantly against the darkness and you... you, Clara, _you bring her back to life_ for me." His head shook again, "You're not her, it's not that I can't distinguish between the two of you. It's that you give her life new _possibilities_ through yours. You make it easier to mourn and easier to move on and I'm sorry I haven't been more open about her with you. You deserved that."

"I won't replace her," she warned.

He scoffed, "Never."

"I am my own Clara Oswald."

His hand gripped hers back and he nodded, "Understood, Captain."

She giggled and turned away bashfully, then turned back and admitted quietly, "Doctor, we don't need your Tardis."

Brow furrowing, he looked around and said, "Clara, while I'd love to consider a domestic lifestyle, I'm not quite ready to give up those stars."

She laughed then, raising his hand slightly within hers, "No, Doctor, I mean UNIT – I was thinking about gaining a bit of advantage and I realized we don't need the Tardis to hack UNIT, we just need another computer. Outside source, less risk."

He laughed with her, watching her smile widen as her eyes disappeared. The Doctor took a large bite of his sandwich, thankful for the burst of flavors, and he brought her hand up to his chest, at a spot just between his hearts, and he held it there, pointing at her with his sandwich telling her softly, "Captain Clarice Palmer, I do love you."

And she hesitated for only a moment before chancing to respond, "And I you, Doctor," and then, to his content smile, she elaborated, "I believe I do love you too."


	38. Chapter 38

The Doctor set himself to looking over the Jeep while Clara worked inside to gather only pertinent supplies into two packs. Less conspicuous, she'd told him, than trying to lug around everything – and they both knew they'd probably have to dump the Jeep as soon as possible. "Someone," Clara had assured, "Would have reported it missing."

He laughed now as he rubbed his hands free of grease and grime, looking over the engine with a long sigh of happiness – he'd missed working on mechanical parts. The feel of metal pieces between his fingers, tubes sliding along his hand, sparks from spots he ought not have touched... he missed it all and he couldn't wait to place his hands on his own console, slip his fingers over the familiar groves of her surface, palms finding levers and buttons and bits.

" _You and this Tardis_ ," Clara teased him on occasion, " _Sometimes I think you need alone time_."

Her smile had been devious and she'd stepped up into him, pushing his hands away from the brake to let them coast through the vortex as she flipped her hair back to look up at him. " _You're thinking mischievous thoughts_ ," he'd half-whispered, his hands finding her waist to hold her closer.

" _How very insightful of you, Doctor_ ," she'd sung back before inching up to kiss him.

Leaning into the engine, he remembered how she'd undone his trousers right there on the console as he'd hitched up her skirt. The Tardis had rung her bells at them, but they'd merely laughed and continued on until they were gasping into each other, and then Clara had groaned and shifted.

" _Your balls are quite uncomfortable_ ," she'd muttered into his ear.

" _What_?" He'd asked in a half-dazed shock as he moved back to look at her reddened face and disheveled hair.

Clara lifted her backside and looked down at the console, " _These, with the Gallifreyan writing on them, your Gallifreyan balls are pressing very uncomfortably into my arse_."

They'd laughed together then at the ridiculousness of the statement and he could easily see the way she'd thrown her head back at her own words. Clara enjoyed a good laugh and the Doctor could think of nothing more beautiful. He smiled, rag stopping against his hand as he reveled in that memory; the throaty laugh, still thick with arousal, and the way her eyes disappeared over those rosy cheeks.

Then he thought of the Clara inside. The one who was double checking a list and parsing out the contents of the first aid kit. The one who was preparing what was left of the MRE's from the soldier's packs that had been on the chopper and determining how much food they should take with them from the cupboards. The one who was preparing for gunfire and adrenaline and death. Her own, possibly, he knew, but he shook the thought away because he was convinced it wouldn't happen.

"She won't die," he whispered to the engine. "Not on my watch."

Except he knew there was no guarantee. He glanced up at the cabin and then closed the hood – either it would start or it wouldn't, he knew – wiping his hands once more before making his way around and up the front steps, opening the door and freezing at the sound of a click and hum, looking up to see Clara holding a gun in each hand. She offered him a smile, each weapon twisting in her grasp to hang from her thumbs against her palms. Expertly, he couldn't help but think.

She'd been trained heavily in UNIT's weaponry and she'd studied everything aliens left behind. Probably knew more about Dalek firepower than some Daleks, he considered with a frown as he closed the door and listened to her tell him loudly, "I know you're opposed to guns, but we're going to need to be threatening, and we also need a contingency plan."

The Doctor was afraid of her contingency plan. He watched her flick a switch on each weapon before pushing them into one of the black bags she was preparing and he glanced to her pack, resting against the couch, moving towards it to give it a small tap of his foot... seeing the way she froze and her eyes came up to it before she glanced at him. Her breathing, he noticed, had quickened and he moved to grab the bag, terrified he'd find some massive bomb inside, but she shouted and jumped out from the kitchen space towards him, hands out.

"That's private, it's mine." She spoke firmly, but her voice seemed frightened.

Shrugging, he gestured at it, "You said we'd be down to one pack each."

"One tactical pack – that's my personal bag, don't..." she trailed as he reached for it. "Don't touch it."

"Is it a bomb?" He asked bluntly. "Clara, please tell me this isn't a bomb."

She laughed nervously and her arms came down slightly as she uttered, "It's not a bomb, why would you think..." and then she understood, lips coming together tightly as she looked away before approaching him and swiping the bag off the ground and up into her arms. "It's not a bomb," she told him.

"What is it then?" He questioned, some understanding dawning as she moved to sit on the couch, her actions hesitant – trying to gauge whether or not she should share – and eventually she chose to trust him. Of course she'd never told him; he'd never asked.

Clara flipped the top flap over and she undid the zipper, swiping them down to each side of the bag so she could peer inside before looking up at him, jaw clenched tightly. She glanced to the space at her side and the Doctor sat, waiting, and he watched her smile. It was the saddest smile he had ever seen on her face and he prepared himself for whatever might come out of that bag, knowing it had to do with her son.

"It's my work bag," she said quietly. "My ID's, my paperwork, my planner, some pens and markers. A few snacks, a bottle of water – we've gone through those." She laughed, then took a breath and pulled out a small closed photo booklet and handed it to him. "I boxed up or gave away most of Charlie's things – I couldn't bear to look at them day in and day out – but I kept some. My mum has some..." she trailed as he undid the small latch and flipped it open.

She laughed immediately.

"That was the day he was born," she told him, though he could tell. It was a standard hospital photo, the boy's pink shriveled face staring up at the camera through narrowed eyes. Unsure. Too new. His head was covered in a thick layer of dark hair and one of his small hands were peeking out from beneath the blanket swaddling him – a tiny _hello_.

He turned the page to see Clara holding him at home in her flat, just a few days later it seemed. She was tired, but happy, cradling her son in her arms, a beaming smile on her face, with a woman he presumed was her mother just beside her. "She must have been overjoyed," the Doctor stated, feeling his hearts both swelling and breaking at the image.

"Mum was _elated_. A perfectly healthy baby boy – we'd been so worried it would be impossible, given all that I had to go through while I was pregnant. Healing from a gunshot wound to the chest, the infection that settled in," he glanced at her and she nodded and he knew that's why she'd been so afraid for him months ago, but she continued, "And then the psychological trauma." Clara smiled down at the photo, "I'd chosen to carry and love and keep the child of the man who tried to murder me." She turned the page to see Charlie lying on his back atop a wildly colored play mat, his wide green eyes gleefully staring up at him, his small face frozen in a brilliant smile that made him laugh. "We named him after my granddad, my mum's dad, Charles."

"You gave him his father's name," the Doctor pointed out.

Clara's head bobbed and she turned another page so the Doctor could see the skinny boy lying on his side chewing on a red rubber ducky and another photo of him sitting up with an odd beanie on his head. "Tom was his father and before his death, before he'd gone mad, there was a world of love in him." She swallowed hard and admitted, "I know he would have loved his son with all of his heart."

"Clara..." he began softly, seeing her smile through her tears.

She turned the page again and nodded to the photo of Charlie standing beside a coffee table, both hands gripping to it while he smiled for her, his top two teeth bright against the pink of his gums. And on the next page he was walking. The red rubber duck from before in one hand, his other hand high in the air, long fingers splayed out as he took his careful steps with a grin on his face that dotted his cheeks with dimples the Doctor touched. He released a breath he hadn't known he was holding as he turned the next page to see her holding him tightly to her in the park.

He was in her lap, his head leaned back against her breasts, his laughter evident and the Doctor could see the blackberries held in his hands. Clara laughed then, and she leaned into his shoulder as she turned the next page, to a photo of the boy standing solemnly at his grandmother's side offering his father's grave a set of small flowers that seemed hand-picked. She sniffled and turned the page again, hugging his arm as she looked into Charlie's smile, looking up at her from inside a tub filled with pirate toys and bubbles.

"He loved bubble baths," she whispered.

"Ah," the Doctor replied softly, "What child doesn't?"

Clara chuckled and she turned the page again, the two of them at a restaurant, Charlie holding a chip across the table for her to bite. He looked to her then as she continued turning the pages, watching her boy grow until his days ended. The tears rolled over her skin easily and dropped off her chin, but her smile remained. Her happiest days, he knew, and he felt the book close in his hands before she took it gently, pushing it back into her bag before pulling out another object. Something furry and brown she tentatively handed him. Something he imagined not many people had the privilege of holding.

"This is Raggy Bear," she explained as he took it, turning the bear over in his hands to look at its smiling face and he felt her nuzzle into his side again, gripping his arm as his thumbs gave the bear's stomach small strokes through the soft curls of its hair. "It was his favorite thing." He looked to her. "It was sitting in his seat in my car after his death. Holding his place for him like he did every day, just waiting for me to pick him up from school."

He handed the bear to her and watched her hold it, and he told her, "We'll take Raggy Bear up into the stars for Charlie, Clara, I promise you."

She nodded against him and then sighed, "Charlie would have loved to see those stars, Doctor."

Looking towards the window where the sun was setting, the Doctor imagined the child in those photos and in her memories, leaping across the console space and it stunned him, how much it pained him that he'd never gotten to – would never get to. Charlie Palmer would never dance around the time rotor and he would never bound towards those front doors to pull them open and shout, " _Look at the stars, mummy_!"

He bowed his head, thinking of his Clara, and how much she would have loved seeing her own beautiful child enamored with those stars and he found himself bending, body physically aching for a soul they'd _refused_ to create. For a soul she'd convinced herself would be impossible to care for, the way they lived their lives. A soul she'd sacrificed to be with him. Looking to the woman beside him, he reached to take her free hand, to give it a squeeze and wait for her dark eyes to turn up towards him.

"I could give you a child," he told her honestly. "He could look out at those stars and he could travel the universe with us, Clara."

Giving him a sad sigh, she reminded, "I'm not her."

He turned away.

"And he wouldn't be Charlie."

The Doctor nodded, squeezing her hand again in understanding. She wouldn't replace his Clara any more than he could replace her son with another. He smiled sadly, feeling her inching closer to him, appreciative of the statement despite the sadness it brought them and he told her quietly, "A brand new life for us then, eh, Clara?"

"And every wonder that comes with it," she responded, hopeful.


	39. Chapter 39

Her heart was hammering in her chest as they climbed into the Jeep the following morning and Clara pressed a hand to her throat, willing it to slow. She hadn't been able to sleep and while she knew the Doctor hadn't been able to sleep either, his kind were adept at it – Clara was exhausted, and at the same time adrenaline was coursing through her, making her feel nauseous and just a touch dizzy. She looked up at the man who slammed the hood down after some odd tinkering he swore would make the car turn over; watched him move around the Jeep into the passenger seat at her side and give her a winning smile.

Trying to be encouraging when she knew he was feeling the same sense of dread she was.

Turning the key, she heard the engine hum slightly and then click several times and she looked to him and the frown he gave the vehicle – as though it had offended him. Then he looked to her and gestured, his indication to try again, and she did, twisting the key harder this time, a small smile as she understood she irrationally felt that little difference might somehow help, and she laughed when the engine roared to life, sending rough vibrations up through the cab.

"Don't look so surprised," the Doctor quipped, "I _am_ quite handy."

She glanced at him with a smirk to nod, "Noted."

Clara wanted to say something far wittier, but her stomach was turning as she listened to the tires crunch over gravel as they began to drive away from the cabin. It felt odd, as though she were leaving home again, and she found herself clenching her jaw and withholding tears and she occasionally looked to the Doctor at her side, wondering if he felt the same, but she was too afraid to ask. What if it felt like just leaving any old place to him – as though it hadn't been somewhat special.

Had their time together been special to him, she pondered.

She told herself it had been and she concentrated on the road; on maneuvering through half paved streets and around fallen logs, the evidence of a long winter that had yet to give way to spring clean-ups. With a frown, she thought to all of the cabins in that area – they'd seen at least three others in their exploration of the woods; they'd continued walking on Clara's insistence – and how many would hold the ends of lives when the cleanup crews did begin their work.

"Stop," the Doctor told her sternly.

"Stop what?" She questioned.

"Thinking about your husband," he stated.

Clara glanced at him and began to ask roughly, "How do you know..."

But the Doctor interrupted, "When you think of him, you touch the scar at your chest absently." He then added sadly, "And then you think to others who have gone through the same, but didn't survive – you think to the other cabins that surrounded us that we didn't bother to check into because of your fears. You cry," he ended with a finger to her cheek, tapping away a tear.

Her hand fell away quickly from that space between her breasts, dropping into her lap with a smack before lifting to put both hands on the wheel to get around a boulder and then a large hole in the road. She didn't dare look at him as he stared at her, studying her, because she didn't want to see the empathy in his eyes, or the way his hand twitched to hold hers. Instead she fell into silence for the first hour of the drive, ignoring all of his attempts to talk, listening to him talk to himself.

Until he finally asked, bluntly, "Are you going to kill them, Clara?"

"Why are you so concerned with their lives, Doctor?" She spat back in frustration, knowing the question had weighed on him heavily over the past few months; knowing the answer meant more to him than things she felt were more important. "These are people who framed you for murder; these are people who want you dead and dissected and you worry so much about their lives."

He shrugged, "Because those we'll come across won't necessarily be the decision makers. They're merely those who've been fed propaganda – like yourself – and have heard it so often they've grown to believe it."

And she understood – should he dismiss _her_ so easily? She'd been told the same lies; should he have given up on her without trying. Clara nodded slowly and she explained, "We can try to tell them the truth, Doctor, but we don't know how many will listen."

"But they'll know," the Doctor sighed. "And maybe that tiny shadow of doubt won't do much good for us, but some day it might change a nation, it might," he told her with a tap of his finger against the crook of her elbow, "It might stop this war. _Correct_ history."

"It'll also take our only advantage," she informed him, waiting until he turned, "If we open up communication with UNIT forces, it'll tell them we're on the move – it'll pinpoint our location and we'll have to be quick about getting to your Tardis."

He nodded, "It would have anyways."

"Yes," she sighed, "But the hacking it would take to locate your Tardis might not set off as many bells as signaling to all of UNIT that we're trying to gain allies."

Laughing, the Doctor allowed, "They'll know we need allies. _Come on, Clara_! Two, against what, a couple hundred soldiers?"

She tried to laugh with him and ended up simply biting her lip. _A couple hundred soldiers_ , she repeated in her head, it suddenly sounded daunting. Why had she thought it had been simpler before? Possibly because, she knew, one didn't think straight when they were enraged and two months ago, Clara had been in a blind rage where now she was considering her options. One of which was taking the Jeep as far from UNIT forces as she could. To a boat at the docks where she could pluck a diamond ring from a pouch in her bag and exchange it for two one way tickets across the ocean.

 _America_ , she thought with a sigh, how could _that_ be a final option?

"Stop," he told her, sounding annoyed.

"What now?" Clara barked.

"You're thinking about dying."

"How can I not think about dying?" she spat at him, "You've been thinking about it this whole time."

He squirmed in his seat, then twisted to look at her, telling her plainly, "You won't die."

"Isn't that the _purpose_ I serve?" Clara stated, feeling her heart sink at the notion. She hadn't tried to think on it much since he'd first explained it – since she'd learned just _why_ she'd been chosen for this mission and _why_ her and the Doctor would have gravitated towards one another either way. "She split herself into a million pieces to save you across time and space, isn't that what you said?"

Frowning, he told her, "That doesn't mean you _have_ to die."

"But I stand a greater chance, don't I?" She growled.

He stared at her a moment, then swung a hand between them and bellowed, " _Now_ , we're going to do this now?"

Clara slammed the brakes, skidding slightly along the wet ground to stop at the side of the road, and she watched the Doctor jerk forward, then stare at her in bewilderment, mouth agape as she shouted back in frustration, "I could be driving to my death, for _you_. To get you to your bloody Tardis, so _yes_ , we're going to do this now – I'm going to be upset _now_." She heaved several long breaths before asking, "Do any of them live?"

"What?" He breathed.

Eyes closing, Clara repeated, "Her echoes – do any of them _live_?"

The Doctor watched her as she slowly looked back at him. He could see her pulse blinking away rapidly at her neck and he rubbed his face, turning away from her fear before meeting her terrified stare to tell her with a slow nod, "Yes, _yes_ Clara, of course some of them live." He smiled, because he could see the doubt in her eyes, "Some of them live wonderful lives, full lives, and die of old age, the way lives are supposed to draw to an end." He took her left hand from where it had landed on the gear shift, "Helping _me_ doesn't mean the end of _you_ , Clara. I promise you that."

Huffing a laugh, she wanted to believe him, and she could see the hope lifting his features as he spoke, knew there was some story there – _some echo's tale_ – and she nodded, ordering weakly, "Don't let me die." Clara laughed and looked quickly to her wrists before finding his eyes, "I'm not quite ready to die just yet, old man," she finished, choking on the final words as he nodded.

Pulling back into the road, she carefully began to drive again, this time trying to push the thought out of her mind because she knew there was no point in dwelling on it. But of course her mind returned to it, over and over again, because she had to consider it. It was practically her job description. _Born to the save the Doctor_ , she thought with a small sad grin, the words echoing in her mind like some order from a past life. Maybe, she considered, it _was_.

The Doctor began talking about the changes in seasons, poetically going on and on about the shifts in the atmosphere and the way the Earth turned in circles and how it drifted around the sun in a coordinated dance. How that all came together to create the perfect planet on which life survived because of its placement and movement and Clara found herself caught between paying attention and running scenarios in her head. She had to be prepared and she knew it was the soldier in her – the _Captain_ in her – that began looking for the variables.

He ended with a smile and a sigh and she offered them in return, but her mind was elsewhere and she frowned when he looked away because she knew he would be disappointed with her. Clara was thinking about how many people she could kill if she had to, and re-counting the ammunition they had in their packs and assuming she'd be able to take the weapons from downed soldiers. She was considering how many laser pierces she could take and whether the Doctor would agree to wear the thin Kevlar vest in his pack.

After arguing that she needed to rest and refusing to give him directions to where they were going, they slipped into a dodgy motel and Clara let her bag fall to the ground and she sank heavily into the king sized bed with a groan, immediately falling asleep as the Doctor watched. He sighed and settled the two 'tactical' packs beside the bed and then sat, dropping a hand to the back of her left thigh and giving it a soft pat before raising his hand to rub over his face. He knew exactly what she was thinking and it sank his hearts.

Because she should have known half the constellations he was mentioning weren't even in the Milky Way – he expected she knew that much about it, working with UNIT – and she should have realized when he named off mountains from Gallifrey. And she shouldn't have smiled and given him a nod when he told her they should visit Klingons first, or travel to Hogwarts next, or see Narnia after that. Clara Oswald should have shaken her head and told him those were fictitious things and teased him for trying to catch her off guard.

But she was thinking about the things the Doctor was choosing to ignore. There was a very good chance she would have to use her weapons and there was a good chance people would have to die. He laid down beside her, hand coming up to stroke the hair out of her face to watch her sleeping and he remembered her words in the Jeep from that morning, and the sadness they'd come with. " _Don't let me die_."

"I will do my very best," he promised.


	40. Chapter 40

The Doctor felt her squirm against him just before she shouted out, pushing at his torso with enough force to make him cough in surprise before he looked to her, now lying on her back, chest heaving with thick breaths as she brought a hand up to her face, covering her eyes and rubbing at her temples. Trying to shake those thoughts loose and calm her body, because even a foot away he could practically feel her pulse pounding out through her veins.

A nightmare. This Clara was tormented by them, he knew, with good reason. He wondered which it had been this time – he never asked, but he always wondered. Sometimes he could tell in the words she said, but oft times she merely moped or cried and then it either woke her or she drifted into dreamless sleep. He watched her now, curious about what it had been, knowing they were going to UNIT. The memories of her husband's death, or of her son's, or even of the times she'd faced death herself? He imagined now she could see a potential death in their attempt to infiltrate UNIT.

He knew it was sitting in the back of her mind like an illness.

"Don't tell me it'll be fine," she managed, voice hoarse and tired.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he responded with a shrug, waiting for her to look at him and give him a small smile of appreciation.

Eyes turning back to the ceiling, Clara refused to tell him what she'd dreamt – that she'd been standing just inside of his Tardis; that she'd just had her first exhilarating feel of freedom staring out at the oversized console room, and then the wound at her chest had re-opened. She was afraid to tell him it felt like a _memory_ and she had no way to explain that. Except now she did. She was an echo of a woman who had gone out into the universe in a million pieces and had then come back; she was an echo of a woman he'd given her fragmented memories of.

A woman he had been capable of telepathically connecting to.

What if it _had been_ a memory?

 _Impossible_ , she convinced herself.

Swallowing roughly, Clara turned to look at him again, taking in the concern in his eyes and the way his fingers picked at the bed sheets, wanting desperately to hold her, but not knowing if it were the right thing to do. Always so sure of himself in some ways, she thought with a grin, but so unsure of himself in others. She sighed as she considered how hard it must have been for his Clara to slip through those cracks in his facade to pull him away from that rigidity. The other woman had done the hard work for her, Clara knew, she'd just been lucky enough to wear her face and maybe contain a tiny piece of her heart – two little things the Doctor desperately missed.

Clara felt her heart sink at the thought. She'd told herself he wanted her, but a small part of her was constantly reminding her that he truly wanted what was left of _her_. She understood she wasn't entirely a replacement, but it was hard not to feel like a replacement part – a bit new, a bit different, a newer model, but still plugged into the same hole in a similar way.

He chanced to run a finger along her jaw, to hold her chin for just a moment as he looked at her, and she could see the sadness in his eyes. There was always that lingering sadness, she thought, and she swallowed against the apprehensions she held onto to smile up at him and nod. She'd travel with him; she'd love him; she'd leave everything behind for him... not because she was an echo, but because she was owed that opportunity, she told herself.

The universe, she decided, _owed_ her.

"Come here," she whispered, reaching to grab hold of his dark jumper to give him a tug towards her.

His laugh was nervous as he shifted closer, one hand draping around her stomach to grip at her waist, pulling her the rest of the way into him. Clara inched up to kiss him lightly and she sighed as he brushed his lips over hers delicately, her eyes closing against the hum of electricity it always seemed to send through her body. His fingertips shifted her own jumper and she inhaled when his skin touched hers, hand molding to her flesh as his mouth began to roam over her neck.

There was something about her in that moment, the Doctor thought to himself, that was different. He understood that some nights she'd climbed atop him as a distraction from her thoughts, and he understood that some nights she simply needed companionship. He accepted that it might take some time for her to fully accept him and he understood that she might never accept him in the way that he craved. The way that his Clara had. But there was an assuredness to her in that instant that shocked his hearts into beating faster.

The Doctor worked her out of her clothes, and she out of his, and he explored her as he would a feast on a new planet, devouring her bit by bit and reveling in her moans and shouts and whimpers. Sounds and breaths that came in certain spots... just underneath her collar bone, and the inside of her right thigh, and just beneath her navel. Places he'd memorized over the past two months and he smiled devilishly when she sucked at a spot above his scar that remained partially numbed by the injury and sent an odd shiver over his body.

He understood what was different then about her. _This_ Clara had finally given in. She _had_ accepted him and this was her assertion of that. Elated as he was, however, he also knew her timing was both telling and terrible: they'd be heading towards a coffee shop near UNIT the next day and they'd be securing a computer to begin their work. A few keystrokes to disable certain security measures hidden within a few keystrokes to send out certain files to all of their workers.

A few keystrokes, he continually thought.

 _Change the world_ , he knew.

And they could also get themselves killed in the process.

He sank himself into her and she let out a soft pleasured cry and he remembered the way his Clara had teased him the first night they'd made love, how she'd asked him if he still remembered how it all worked and how he'd demonstrated that he did. This incarnation wasn't as timid as the previous, he was simply uncertain she could return affection he wasn't adept at displaying. How could she love him when his idea of love wasn't some physical connection, or verbal declaration, or some grand gesture, but an effortless serenity within his hearts? Humans, he continually thought, were too fixated on the tangible and often lost the allure of emotions, especially, and ironically, with their love.

He groaned with her, feeling her body arching into him, inside of her knees pressed tightly into the space above his hips as her fingernails grazed their way over his back. Opening himself up mentally, he could feel her apprehension and he could feel her fear and he raised a hand to touch her temple, cradle her skull, alleviating those things with how he felt, looking down at her. And she _sighed_. All of the pressure she'd been feeling slipping away, replaced by euphoria that quickly sent her over the edge.

It felt like an end.

He collapsed atop her with a strangled set of grunts, his hand shifting to hold the top of her head, thumb stroking her forehead, continuing to transfer his emotions. And he could hear her crying softly underneath him as she clung to him. Whether she was feeling it because he was, or he was feeling it because she was, he couldn't shake the notion that what should have felt like a strong _hello_ and a new beginning between them felt more and more like a potential _goodbye_.

"Clara," he whispered, "Clara, it's alright."

She sniffled and he inched up to hold her face in his hands. To brush her tears with his thumbs and press a gentle kiss into her lips as she smiled weakly and nodded. And then she admitted, "I'm scared."

He knew from his own Clara that it took a lot for any of them to confess that fact and he took a breath, feeling her legs slip slightly, ankles hooking just underneath his buttocks as her knees squeezed. She was holding him to her, body trembling slightly between her orgasm and her terror over what the next day would bring, and she looked away as she bit her bottom lip, trying to keep it from shaking.

Hating to look weak, he knew.

"Clara," he stated, waiting for her took look to him. "We're going to release the truth tomorrow and there's no guarantee that won't go sour."

She nodded.

"But everyone at UNIT will be equipped to decide, at that point, who they stand with. If that is the best that we do, then we've succeeded." He stroked at her hair and she closed her eyes, taking a long breath to calm her heart, but he could see her pulse at her neck, throbbing away and he knew it was fear. "You can choose not to," he told her.

Her eyes snapped open and her brow dropped as she asked, "What?"

Bowing his head slightly, the Doctor allowed, "I could go in; I could send out that information and I can locate my Tardis and I can go find it." He nodded. "When it's done, I can find you and we can leave. Travel," he ended with a sad smile.

"No," she uttered, voice wavering. "No, I can't accept that."

"Can't accept me taking the risks?" He laughed.

Her head shook, "I can't accept you dying because I was a coward."

"It isn't cowardice, Clara," he told her softly. "It's a rational decision you're allowed to make."

Clara huffed. "It's cowardice, letting someone go into battle on their own."

"I'm not a soldier, Clara," he reminded.

"I know," she countered with a half-smile, "That doesn't mean I don't still care for your well-being." Then her smile grew and her cheeks went pink as she admitted shyly, "Probably moreso than my soldiers, being honest with myself."

He chuckled and watched her do the same, then he told her quietly, "Stay, be safe."

But she shook her head, "I'm not letting you go alone."

He nodded because he knew there was no convincing her. He slipped back slightly and then dropped to her side, reaching for her waist to pull her towards him and then maneuver her atop him and he smiled because she made no sound of surprise, merely nuzzled into him. Lying her cheek to his chest, she hugged at his sides and listened to his heartbeats and the Doctor closed his eyes against the feel of her body against his. She was tiny and warm and nestled perfectly into him.

She _belonged_ there, he thought absently.

"What's on your mind?" Clara questioned.

Peering down at her, he responded, "What would you say to me saying _nothing_?"

Chuckling, she told him, "I'd say you're a terrible liar."

"Says the terrible liar," the Doctor teased.

"Takes one to know one, I suppose," she jeered right back.

He merely laughed. He could exist like this for a few hundred years, he knew, and he wished he could say the same for her – not that she couldn't be with him her whole life, but that she wouldn't have hundreds of years. He sighed into the darkened night and told her sadly, "Humans have such a large capacity for so many wonderful things and yet are given such a short life span with which to achieve them. Doesn't seem fair. Never did."

"If you find the secret to immortality," Clara responded, "Please do let me know."

Their shared laughter was muted by the pain they both felt – the understanding they both had. Clara could make it through the next day and she could make it through the day after that, but her death would linger around some corner. He held her tightly and kissed the top of her head. It was the inevitability he had to learn to accept; the one that should have kept him from going to see _this_ Clara in the first place. The Doctor had to learn to let go before he'd truly held on and trust that everything would work out the way it should – even if it pained him along the way.

The Doctor had to be thankful for every moment he had, _not dwell on ones he might have missed_.

"Love," he stated after a moment.

Clara lifted her head and looked to him for an explanation as he grinned and stared into her dark eyes. He could stare into her eyes for an eternity, he knew. Sink right into them and happily drown in them. There were a million moments in those eyes; millions upon millions of memories and he was grateful that he was one of them.

"The secret to immortality is love."

She laughed, throaty and tired, "I'm not sure I follow."

His hands gripped at her sides, fingers massaging her flesh, and he looked her over, stilling to say, "I came here to try and find some remnant of Clara because I thought I had lost her, but I _never had_ , not truly – because I loved her so deeply, so strongly... that remnant of her lives within me forever." She began to frown, slowly, and the Doctor lifted his brow, "You still don't _understand_ : you're not a _piece_ of her; you're a _complete woman_. A woman I also love enough that you will live on in my hearts long after you're gone."

Her lips drifted up and she drew a circle against his chest, filling it in with twists he recognized, but knew she didn't, and she replied tenderly, "Maybe that's why Time Lords need two hearts – all those years; all that love..." she laughed, head dropping back to his chest.

"Yes, Clara," he breathed, "To keep you in my hearts beyond your years."

He could feel her smile against his skin and he wrapped his arms around her, waiting until she had drifted back to sleep to settle her into the bed underneath the sheets. Pulling them to her chin and stroking a hand through her hair, he sighed and then stood, dragging his pants and then his trousers on before plucking the jumper off the ground to yank over his head and leaving the motel.


	41. Chapter 41

He took the Jeep and he drove towards the address he'd read in her head and he convinced himself he was doing the right thing for the right reason. Because it had been foolish of him to go find her at all, to disrupt her life and send her on this insane mission – she might have been happier if he'd stayed. This war might not have happened if he'd stayed. If he'd done what he was supposed to and had gone straight to that appointment he was going to take Clara to just a few years earlier. To listen to the silence that accompanied the Prime Minister and his ridiculous hat and cry about it later in the solace of the Tardis.

" _One day, Doctor_ ," he could hear Clara scolding him, " _One day I won't be there for you and you have to learn not to be so impulsive_!"

He'd jumped on a massive creature, thinking it safe to show off for her, and had immediately been bucked off, sending him tumbling down a hillside where he cracked his head. Clara had taken the Tardis to retrieve him and he'd woken on the console floor with her kneeling over him, a bloodied rag in her hand and a worried look on her face before she punched him in the chest and stormed away.

" _It seemed a good idea at the time_ ," he'd explained, sitting up with a wince.

" _It always seems like a good idea at the time to you_ ," she'd shot back angrily.

They should have laughed together, he'd thought, but she was crying; the suddenness of it alarming him into standing upright and ignoring the shock of pain that burned the inside of his skull as he crossed the space to her. She turned away, stubbornly, and he touched her shoulder, frowning when she pulled it away from his grasp, and then she turned and latched onto him, sobbing into his chest.

" _Is this a menstrual hormone thing_?" He'd questioned.

She'd laughed then, shaking her head against his chest to tell him meekly, " _This is a love thing, Doctor_."

He understood now, what he hadn't really comprehended then. If he was hurting, she was hurting, but if he were dead... he gripped the steering wheel and gritted his teeth as he pushed the pedal harder. He wouldn't allow another Clara to die for him. She could murder him later when he picked her up, and then went to get Caroline, and they were off to the stars together. Just a bunch of girls, he thought with a wild laugh as he turned off the main road and began maneuvering the smaller streets until he found the coffee shop and parked.

Clara woke with a start just before sunup and she glanced around at the silent motel room, her heart thudding in her chest with a terrible thought. "Just gone off for breakfast," she told herself, voice barely audible, even in the stillness.

She stood to shower, but considered the room, then thought about the Doctor and everything he'd said the night before. Her breathing slowed and her mind raced and she understood – he'd left her. The idiot had left her because he thought he was saving her by doing so. Clara gave him ten minutes, just in case she'd been wrong, and then she began to map out the route to the coffee shop in her head and she laughed because he'd been in there, passively poking around and he knew. He knew where he had to go.

"You complete arse," she grumbled, whether about herself or the Doctor she couldn't be sure.

Looking to the two tactical packs still lying on the ground next to the bed, Clara groaned, hands pressing to either side of her face before she picked up her own backpack to sling over her shoulders and then grabbed both bags to pull onto the bed. She had to condense them, otherwise she would look suspicious in her travels alone, and she dumped food and extra clothes and first aid items she deemed non-essential before she stepped out of the motel room into the chilly morning air with a long breath that drifted away as smoke.

The space in front of the door stood empty and Clara stomped a foot before declaring loudly, "Son of a bitch!" And she began walking.

Stepping into the coffee shop, the Doctor looked around at the computer stations and he stepped up to the front counter to look at the young man there rubbing a long finger underneath his nose as he sniffled. Not companion material, he thought as he dug into his pockets for the money he had. He knew it wasn't much, but he unfolded and straightened the bills and handed them to the cashier before asking briskly, "What will this get me?"

The confused look on his face shifted to one of amusement before he counted it and took a breath, turning towards the banner behind him of options and he began with a long, "Uuuuuuh," before finally telling him, " _Depends_ – are you hungry?"

"Depends," the Doctor replied, "Does it eat into my computer time to have a sandwich with my coffee?"

The cashier turned back and shrugged, "Coffee, bagel, one hour of computer time."

"An hour," he spat.

Twisting the money in his hand slightly, the young man declared sharply, "It's not much money, _sir_."

Lips turning angrily, the Doctor nodded and then gestured, "It's all computerized, isn't it – what money went to what computer, how much time, coffee order..."

Pointing at his register, he told him sarcastically, "Yeah, we're _progressive_ like that," then he asked, "So, do you want to order this?"

"On this system?" He glanced around and laughed lightly, " _Absolutely_."

After a few keypunches, he was directed to station number 5. And after a few keypunches of his own at station number 5, he had a plate of fries, a milkshake, and unlimited time to do whatever he'd like. So he started with searching for Caroline and found himself digging through her social media pages, frowning when he began reading her statuses because she'd been worried sick.

" _Roommate – ahem,_ flatmate _– hasn't returned from work and isn't returning calls_."

" _It's about three hours after she normally gets home and she hasn't checked in_."

" _Is it too weird and clingy to have left seven messages_?"

" _Hasn't called; haven't slept. Yeah, got it bad_."

" _I'm really worried_."

" _Ok, dudes from her office showed up – she's in trouble_."

" _This is bullshit, no one will tell me anything_."

" _Hey Clara, if you're seeing this, please call me_."

The account went quiet after that, just a few days after they'd escaped to the cabin, and he rubbed a hand over his face wondering whether the young woman had started to stir up trouble with UNIT. He took a long breath and properly feared for her because if UNIT had been corrupted as deeply as he was afraid it had, the disappearance or death of one American 'student' wouldn't faze them one bit.

Taking a long sip of his milkshake, he began to create a secondary web of protection around his browsing, and then he cracked his knuckles, diving into the coding behind UNIT's security until he was rubbing at his eyes and transferring files. And then he felt the hard slap at the back of his head and he jerked away, shouting, and standing up to find the petite brunette dropping a bag down at her feet, her hands balling into fists, ready to punch him, but knowing she shouldn't cause more of a scene.

She fell into the seat beside him and gestured, "Have you gotten anywhere with this?"

" _What are you doing here_?" He hissed at her.

"Thought you'd just _dump_ me in the middle of nowhere in a motel and lose me?" She shot back through clenched teeth before reminding him, "I am a trained _soldier_."

His eyes bulged and he asked sarcastically, "Does that mean you marched back, _Captain_?"

Narrowing her eyes at him, she explained, "I am also an attractive woman, which means a thumb can get me a long way."

" _Just_ a thumb," he spat with a lifting of his brow.

She punched at his shoulder roughly and he jerked away, looking from her to the young man now smirking with another young man behind the counter, both glancing at them and covering their mouths in a failed attempt to conceal their amusement. The good news, he supposed, was that his and Clara's faces weren't plastered all over the place so they were unrecognizable to them. Even with the commotion.

"Have you gotten anywhere with this?" Clara repeated, pulling her chair closer and picking up his milkshake to finish it off, eyes closing as it slid coolly into her rumbling stomach.

He punched up a menu and ordered her a breakfast sandwich, finagling the payment, and then he switched screens to show her the documents as they fluttered up, telling her, "These are my full files – not something I like seeing go out to 2.34 million UNIT soldiers," he paused to shake his head and mutter, "2.34 million UNIT soldiers, honestly," before continuing, "But I would rather have it in their hands than not," then he gestured, "These are Charlie's files."

"You can open them," she told him blankly.

"These are Charlie's files," he repeated softly, not doing as she asked, "And they'll be distributed as well."

"You've seen them," Clara stated.

"Yes," was all he said.

Meeting his sad look, she knew he'd seen the photo of them atop the rubble and he'd seen those autopsy photos and he'd read the report that told of how he'd suffered in his final days. Clara swallowed roughly just as a plate was leveled in front of her face and she took it with a small thanks and a shake of her head.

"He died saving his classmates," the Doctor told her. "You failed to mention that."

She laughed sorrowfully, setting the plate down on the table beside the keyboard. "The bomb that fell didn't detonate straight away – he made sure his friends were hidden inside a closet. New schools," she explained with a small roll of her hand, "Each classroom has a closet constructed of titanium steel, supposed to be a fallout shelter for any sort of attack. It's one of the reasons I put him in that school. _Modernization_." She touched her sandwich. "The blast happened while he was still outside, they say he was checking to make sure everyone got in; he was with his teacher. She's the reason he didn't die immediately..."

Clara swallowed, not able to tell him the woman's body had shielded him from the blast. The woman's body had been found in pieces so that her son could be found whole. She clenched her jaw to still her tears and she looked up at the solemn look the Doctor wore.

"You hate her for that," he stated.

She nodded, admitting, "For a long time I did."

"You would rather your son have died instantly," he knew.

Her bottom lip trembled and she managed to tell him, "Charlie suffered for almost three days. No food, no water, bones broken, body withering away as he cried out for me. Yes, Doctor, I would rather my son have died instantly than go through that just to look at me one last time before he passed away."

Nodding curtly, he clicked and the files flashed up on the screen and Clara watched each image burst up onto the screen before the final autopsy report remained. The one that told her if they'd found him on the first day, maybe he'd have had a chance. And he knew the guilt she felt over wishing her son had stood in the place of his teacher, knew it had factored into the hasty decision to slit her wrists. He watched her touch her left before she wrapped her palm around it and nodded.

"Release it." She took a breath. "Release all of it to everyone."

"The moment I do this, they'll know we're here."

She smiled, "Doctor, they already know." And to his glance, she explained, "These files? They were earmarked the moment we left – any access to them not made by a superior officer would automatically trigger an alarm somewhere in that facility. Your Tardis is probably on lockdown right now; as is your Sonic. Security, if it hasn't already been beefed up, has been doubled with reinforcements on the way."

"For two people?" The Doctor laughed quietly.

Looking up at him sharply, Clara nodded slowly and told him knowingly, "We're not just any two people."


	42. Chapter 42

Adrenaline is a funny thing, General Wallace thought as his heart was hit with a jolt of cold that washed out through his veins. He looked to the blinking notification on his screen and took a long breath as his heartbeat began to thud against the hollow of his neck. And then his inbox lit up. He straightened in his chair, flicking the screen to see the files coming in. Dozens of emails with attachments, sent out to the whole of UNIT. Why had they not expected that? Why, he thought as he slammed a fist down on the table, had they not anticipated the simplest solution.

Because they expected Captain Palmer leading the Doctor.

They hadn't quite thought of the Doctor leading Captain Palmer.

And the Doctor was clever. He understood that power didn't come from explosions or bullets or laser rounds or terror – power came from information, from persuasion through doubt, from _truth_. Standing, he grumbled, "Computer, lockdown," and listened to it chime back happily that it had complied, and then he stormed from the room, walking through the halls to a sea of soldiers all looking at their tablets and phones in confusion, and then those eyes drifted up and there was a spark of something there. Something he turned away from as he continued walking towards the command center.

He swiped his keycard at a door and pushed in angrily, looking to the heads that turned at each computer station and he barked, "Well, _tell me you have a location_!"

There was silence.

Taking a step forward, he inhaled deeply and balled his fists before calmly stating, "What you're seeing is a fabrication – something the Doctor and Captain Palmer had two months to concoct while you've been sitting on your thumbs about their location. I want the dissemination of this information halted and I want them found, is that understood?"

The response was far less favorable than he'd liked, and he moved to the front of the room to look out at the curious eyes that faced him now. Eyes that questioned him now. Eyes, he knew, that had seen the devastation of those school bombings and had known families affected, and some – he understood – who knew Captain Palmer personally and wondered whether she might be telling the truth.

"The Doctor," he told them plainly. He paced the room, hands gripping themselves at his sides. "The Doctor is _well known_ for his lies." He glanced up, already seeing a few of those eyes narrowing and knowing the thought behind them – UNIT had told enough lies themselves that they'd all had to cover – so he sighed. "Shut down the email server," he told them as casually as possible.

No one moved.

"Shut down," he began slowly, angrily, _pointedly_ , "The email server."

Someone began to type and General Wallace moved towards the younger man, looking to his screen to see the coding flying up, and then a blinking red warning flashed, " _EMAIL SERVER DISABLED_ "

"Those files came from somewhere – I want to know _where_ ," he spoke sternly now, and loudly, and he looked out over the room as they began to work at their computer screens, a murmur of dissent rolling through them as they worked, and it launched a second wave of cold tendrils through his veins.

The door opened and he glanced up to see another General step into the room, sweat beginning to bead his forehead as he asked quietly, "Have they severed that connection?"

"Yes," he grunted, "But the information is out – to who knows how many."

"Everyone at UNIT," the other man informed him. "Even janitorial staff, for God's sake."

Turning with a curl of his upper lip, Wallace gestured to the door and he moved swiftly through it, emerging into a hallway in which movement had dramatically increased since he'd last been in it. Everyone seemed in a hurry and he knew – orders were starting to trickle down from Generals to Brigadiers to Colonels to Majors to Captains to Lieutenants to soldiers all around the world. Orders to delete those files from their emails; orders to stand guard against an attack; orders to _remain calm_.

Looking to the chaotic scene, the General almost laughed, but he kept his eyes level on the space in front of him, going towards a briefing room with the man at his side and locking the door behind them as they looked to the men around the table. It seemed like it wasn't long ago they were all there discussing what to do with Captain Palmer after her interrogation with the Doctor had gone south. He should have followed his first instinct then.

She wasn't a threat with a bullet in her head.

He thought back to the first time he'd met her, when she'd first plopped onto their radars. Back before he'd officially joined UNIT; back when he'd simply been her father's commanding officer and worked side by side with the rapidly growing arm of the British military. A tiny speck of nothing standing beside her mother, holding tightly to the woman's hand as she glared up at him, her eyes sizing him up in a way grown men weren't capable of doing.

Eight years old with three front teeth missing, asking him why her father had to be deployed so far from home when there was a battle nearby he could handle. Eight years old explaining to him that it was tactically stupid to not seek the assistance of other nations willing to help. Eight years old standing straighter than any soldier he had under his command and offering him a sharp salute of respect as her face held contempt for him and his patronizing answers.

" _You'll make a great soldier one day_ ," he'd told her then, as she relaxed, just as she began to turn away.

" _Not under your command, I hope_ ," she'd shot, eyes rolling slightly as she'd walked away.

Pity she'd never looked into her father's file, he thought with a scowl. Because he knew the push she needed to turn her into a soldier. Wallace knew exactly _what_ button to push _when_ to turn the sweet would-be school teacher into a weapon and he stomped on it happily. And then he took pleasure in the look in her eyes after her son's death when she'd been assigned to him. The anger over the child overrode her anger at him and she begrudgingly followed orders, but he knew it grated at her every day.

"Are we prepared?" He asked the room.

There was a rumble of talk and finally one man offered, "Depends on what their next move is – the odds of them doing this... we presumed she would have returned a lot sooner."

"We let our guard down," someone shouted, "Plain and simple."

The computer screens around the room flickered to life and the men looked to them, to the reports coming in and they went quiet. "That's an order from the King to stand down," a shaky voice said aloud. "We're to stand down until an investigation can be conducted – that's..."

"That's preposterous," Wallace barked. "We'll not stand down. It's our duty to this country... to this _world_ , to keep it running smoothly, and we'll do whatever it takes to keep it that way."

"You're not implying we should disobey orders from the King."

Wallace sneered and spat, "The King," then he gestured, "We took oaths when we joined UNIT that we would defend this planet against _anything and everything_ and if the King is part of 'anything and everything', then yes, we disobey his orders."

They spoke amongst themselves and Wallace waited, straightening his coat and looking to each man in that room, just looking for an excuse to pull the pistol from his waistband and end a discussion. And then someone asked, "Should we move the Tardis and his weapon?"

Shrugging, Wallace asked, "Why bother? He won't get to either one and neither will Captain Palmer."

The screen flickered again and they all looked to find a smiling face staring back at them from inside of what looked like a coffee shop, nose almost pressed into the camera lens and just beside the Doctor's left shoulder, was Captain Palmer, stone-faced as she watched. General Wallace stared at her moment before turning his attention to the grinning idiot, and he felt a shiver run up his spine because her eyes held contempt – contempt specifically for him, he knew.

The Doctor gave a small wave, and began confidently, "This message is for General Wallace mainly, but it's good of you all to join us! All of the responsible parties, yes, the ones who've been making the decisions, working the gears as it were, and running what was _passably_ a well-meaning establishment for the protection of the citizens of Earth straight into the devil's pit." He laughed once, and then his brow dropped as he continued, "Now. You've got something of mine, a _couple_ things of mine actually and I'll be heading into UNIT to retrieve them. Would use credentials, but they're among my things, so I might be breaking down a few doors. Might get a little dusty along the way." He laughed and looked to Clara, who gave him a wary look before he turned back and sighed. "No doubt things are a bit chaotic by now, soldiers bustling about trying to sort which order to follow and which to chuck to the bins." He shrugged. "One from the King, pretty _impressive_."

"I _hate_ that man," Wallace groaned.

"Good, yes, about that," the Doctor replied with a point to the General. "Not too fond of you either."

"Captain," Wallace called, "How's about we end this charade and you give yourselves up."

"Why would I do that?" She responded darkly, and Wallace could see the look the Doctor gave her – the concern in his features painfully evident as he studied the way she was glaring. "Why give up?" She laughed, but it was terrifying as she leaned into the screen. "When you're in a prison cell, rotting your life away, I'll consider giving up."

The Doctor sighed and Wallace's eyes darted between the two.

Tugging her back from the camera, the Doctor nodded, "Yes yes, catching up with old friends is ever so fun," he waved, "See you soon," and reached forward until the image flickered off.

Wallace dropped into a seat and he nodded, "Every soldier on guard – I want every one of them on guard and I want the both of them brought to me."

"Wouldn't it be less risky... Shouldn't we shoot them on sight?" Someone asked curiously.

Shaking his head, Wallace growled, "Not until I'm done with them."

In the coffee shop, the Doctor gave Clara a small shove and she fell into the chair next to him taking a long breath as she continued to stare into the computer screen angrily – as if Wallace could still see her. The Doctor snapped his fingers several times and then he gave her cheek a tap with the back of his hand, one she jerked away from before turning that death stare to him and that's when she softened.

Blinking several times, she raised a hand slightly and uttered, "Sorry, I'm sorry."

"We wanted intimidation; you've just pissed him off," he warned.

"Good," she spat, "All that blood clogging his fat useless head might cause him to make a mistake."

"And you?" The Doctor challenged.

Her eyes focused back on him and she asked, "And me, what?"

His hand waved over her and he looked upon her with disgust, telling her angrily, "You think this is doing you any good? Thinking about how you want to tear that _fat useless head_ off with your bare hands?" She opened her mouth to answer and he pointed, "No." Clara shifted forward and he repeated, "No."

"Doctor," she began.

"I will not go to UNIT with you like this and you will not go into my Tardis with blood on your hands – physical or otherwise."

She laughed then, slumping into her chair, "Do you have any idea how much blood I have on these hands," they flopped slightly in her lap as she huffed another breath. "If that's a restrictive factor, then I'm definitely not your girl."

Taking a long breath, he shook his head and then reached for her hands, gripping them tightly as she sniffled against the sadness seeping into her heart. Sadness, he knew, over all of those deaths. "You were told they were the enemy – and they very well could have been." He tilted his head back to the screen, "Willing to gamble that room full of men has been planning a hostile takeover of Great Britain for quite some time and they..." he trailed.

"They what?" Clara asked weakly, turning to look at him.

"It's my fault," he stated.

Narrowing her eyes, Clara questioned, "What? How is it your fault? That was all a lie!"

Bowing his head, he clenched his teeth and understood. "I was supposed to be there. I was supposed to take Clara – it all goes back to that one day, that one event, that one missed appointment."

"So you missed an appointment," she argued.

"It was a peace treaty," he stated. "They didn't know it then, but that was the reason they were brought together and I... we... Clara and I... we were supposed to ensure nothing happened – and then something happened."

"What?" Clara questioned.

He growled, "I wasn't there to stop them."


	43. Chapter 43

The Doctor damned himself for being so foolish as he sat in that chair, blood boiling through his veins. Vastra had been right in so many ways – he should have found a way to move on; he should have continued as planned and he should have mourned, but _continued_ on in his travels... _without Clara_. Bowing his head, he clenched his teeth and he could hear Clara asking him if he was alright, he could feel her right hand slipping from his loosened grasp to come up and grip his left shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Vastra had been _right_.

He should never have gone looking for her echo. His desperation to see her one more time – his inability to accept the truth, to accept that Clara was gone – had caused a cataclysmic ripple through time. It had started a war that was preventable; it had destroyed so much. He had more blood on his hands than this Clara ever would and the thought stabbed at his hearts.

Taking a breath that seemed heavy in his chest, he told her, "They had a plan that day and I was supposed to be there to stop it. They made me the enemy because I _could_ have stopped it; I was sold as the enemy because I _should_ have and they were frightened that at any moment I _would_." He exhaled roughly and then shook his head, words now tumbling lightly from his lips, "They knew you would exist; they had enough of my history to know of Clara's echoes and to know you would _always_ be there to help me. They _sought you out_ and you were _turned against me_ to ensure my demise because Clara, _Clara_ I would walk into that abandoned building _over and over again_ if I knew you were standing within it."

She watched him as his body continued to bend, almost as if in pure tortured pain, and she pushed at his shoulder, trying to bring his eyes back up to hers, but she knew – she knew the guilt he felt. Clara knew he blamed himself now for the war and he blamed himself for all of the lives lost and he blamed himself for every single thing UNIT had spent years teaching the public he was at fault for. He was believing their lies and accepting them and they were haunting him because at the center of it all, in his mind, was _her_.

The Doctor blamed himself for Tom.

The Doctor blamed himself for Charlie.

The Doctor blamed himself for all of her pain.

And it burned his soul.

"Don't do this," she hissed at him. "Don't you dare fall apart on me because I need you now, Doctor."

He straightened slightly and offered a weak smile, "Soldier's orders, Captain Palmer?"

Shaking her head and laughing softly, she responded, "No, I'm no soldier, any more than you're at fault for this war or any of the horrors it has caused." She inched forward and told him sternly, "UNIT is at fault – the heads of UNIT who chose to take an organization that sought to do good and decided it wasn't enough power? They did this and they are paying." She nodded. "They will pay, Doctor."

It soothed him that her voice was even, void of anger and filled with only honesty... filled with something he hadn't quite heard on her voice yet: _hope_. She smiled then, serenely, and he couldn't help but return it, knowing the thought in the back of her head; knowing the desire itching through her body and he managed a chuckle before sighing, "Go on."

She launched herself forward, arms thrown around him, and both chairs skidded against the linoleum, but the Doctor didn't care who turned to look at them, or what they thought when they saw them. He felt a tiny bit of peace in that moment. He held her, dropping his forehead to her shoulder and sighing into her as she rubbed his back to comfort him – to remind him that she was still alive and still by his side and was going to do whatever it took to resolve this with him.

And the thought terrified him.

But not more than the shaky voice that suddenly asked, "Captain Palmer, is it true?"

He expected to turn to look directly down the barrel of a gun; afraid to find a group of soldiers waiting for them to disentangle themselves from each other, but instead he looked up at one woman holding a phone in her hands and a shocked look on her face as she waited for the woman in front of him to turn. Clara slowly pushed up from him and she swallowed hard before she met the older woman's eyes and nodded, gesturing at her to sit and the Doctor was relieved when she did.

"Alice, it's all been lies," she told her former assistant, whose hands twisted in her lap as she nodded at Clara's words before looking between them.

"You're the Doctor," she finally stated.

With a stern nod, the Doctor asked the obvious, "Are you going to take us in?"

Alice laughed nervously, but didn't answer him, and then looked to Clara, telling her quietly, "They've cleared out your office, gone through everything. It's been chaos for two months since you've been gone – said you'd gone mad."

Shaking her head, Clara explained, "Not mad, just seeing things clearly for the first time."

The Doctor watched the woman listen as Clara told her everything she knew was true and he tried to gauge this Alice's reaction, tried to read her pulse and her movements, but she remained still as she took in the information and in the end, he had no clue whether he could trust her or not, even though Clara seemed to. Clara entrusted her with the details of their injuries and how they had hidden and how they had physically healed and planned to find the Tardis and escape.

"You're a copy of a woman from a couple hundred years ago," Alice finally stated.

"Not a copy," the Doctor corrected, "An _echo_ – a piece, a part, living in a very _whole original_ woman."

Alice raised an eyebrow at him and spat, "Touché."

They exchanged a testy set of looks and Clara raised a hand slightly between them, gaining Alice's attention to ask, "Has security been stepped up?"

"As of when I left on lunch twenty minutes ago?" The woman began, eyes giving the Doctor a once over before she finally turned her gaze again to Clara, "No, but these emails you two sent out? That's going to make a mess of things, for sure."

Nodding, the Doctor supplied, "That's what we're counting on."

"You realize some of those boys and girls have been with UNIT since practically childhood?" Alice scoffed, "A few emails like this aren't going to deter those who think UNIT stands for everything right and good and you aren't going to simply walk through the palace doors, so to speak, with an escort straight to your Tardis to skip off and gallivant across time and space like you think."

Clara groaned, "Alice, we don't think that at all."

"I was hoping for a red carpet though," the Doctor quipped in frustration.

The woman sneered at him and Clara sighed. "Alice, has anything in security changed since I've been gone."

The Doctor leaned forward and asked, "Wait, so they've moved the Tardis to the main UNIT building."

"Of course they have," Alice told them both, looking between them. Then she smirked, "Oh they'd be upset to see you two now – I think maybe this is what they were afraid of, all of those years."

"All of those years?" Clara questioned, eyes narrowing.

Leaning forward, as if she were simply gossiping at the shop, Alice slapped Clara's knee lightly and explained, "I forget your mum and dad didn't raise you on the old stories. Quite the deprived generation yours has been, maybe that can change now."

They both sat silently for a moment, and then the Doctor's face contorted as he spat, "I'm sorry, but _what_?"

Alice laughed, "Sweetheart, you were a legend, especially at UNIT before they rewrote the books, and I've waited a very long _long_ time to see you return." Then she frowned, "Where the bloody hell have you been, anyways? Heard you'd been blown off the map – _sad day that was for me_ – but you've been missing for a whole lot longer than that!"

Head shaking, Clara repeated, "What?" She supposed she'd never even thought to ask her assistant if she'd known about the Doctor; stubbornly; she'd assumed she knew everything there was to know, but there was a twinkle in that old woman's eyes now she'd never seen. Some stories she'd never heard, and she waited patiently as she sighed at them, lifting both hands to gesture to them.

"So many stories, so many wonderful companions, but I'd heard about you from my mum, my granddad, and before he passed – _bless his soul_ – my great granddad. Always called _you_ the little one with the big heart. Loved hearing about you and Sarah Jane the most, though the bravery of all were an inspiration to me and my sister as a children," Alice's hands clapped together as the Doctor's rose and waved through the air, stopping the memory in her mind as he coughed in confusion.

Pointing to her, he stated in bewilderment, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure I understand what's happening here – I take it you're a colleague of Clara's?"

Nodding, Alice stated, "Best receptionist at UNIT and I think she'd agree," she looked to bop of Clara's head and her small smile of appreciation.

Blinking, he continued, "You've got all of these stories of me and my companions passed down through your family that would tell her that I'm generally a good person looking to help and all of this time you've known she was on assignment to kill me and all of this time you've known UNIT was painting me as the villain and you've said nothing?"

Clara looked from the Doctor to Alice, curious now herself, and she saw the frown that suddenly overtook the woman's face. Something dark emerged that Clara had never seen in that woman's eyes and she held her breath as she waited for her response, knowing it wasn't something she was going to want to hear.

"Like I said," Alice told him lowly, "You've been gone a long time and in your absence a lot has happened. When that treaty wasn't signed and that war broke out, there were plenty of people who declared your innocence who suddenly disappeared. Plenty of people cried out for the Doctor only to be silenced by accidents and scandals and outright assassinations." Her head tilted, "One learned what not to say fairly quickly and that is that you _are_ a good man." Bowing her head slightly, she shook it and sighed, "The Brigadier would be rolling in his grave if he knew that your legacy had been tarnished taking UNIT to hell with it."

" _The Brigadier_ ," both the Doctor and Clara exclaimed in a hushed whisper.

Alice lifted her eyes to them and smiled, "How do you think I know so much about you – he's _family_."

With a new smirk on his face and a puffing of his chest, the Doctor reached to take Alice's hand and offer it a kiss before asking, "Alice, I'll ask you once more: _are you going to take us in_?"

And Alice understood perfectly well what he asked and she knew, by the smugly confident look on his face, that she had his absolute trust, even generations separated from the man and the daughter of the man he'd known, and she shifted back to tell him, "Of course I will!"


	44. Chapter 44

Clara was pressed close enough into the Doctor that he could feel her heartbeat. She was curled up in front of him, stuffed in the trunk of a car with her personal pack nestled against her stomach and a stun gun held tightly in her right hand. Just beside her head sat the tactical pack she had left and he knew she was angry he'd reduced her to just the one – not that he thought they would need it. The Doctor was generally positive they would be able to get into UNIT, get to the Tardis, and get out without casualties.

If they managed to not draw attention to themselves.

"Breathe, Clara," he whispered into the back of her neck.

He couldn't see it, but he felt the shiver her body gave and he smiled, hand coming up to rest against her waist to hold her steady as they moved over a set of bumps. The car slowed and he knew they were approaching an entrance gate of some sort. Alice had assured them they wouldn't be searched – she'd made sure she worked close to Clara, but didn't have enough direct contact to make her suspicious if anything like this arose. And the old woman seemed to know something like this would.

" _We're always thinking ahead_ ," she'd explained. " _Why I have such a big trunk; never know why, but you might have to stuff a few bodies in there one day_." The Doctor had laughed; Clara had not.

They began to move again and he heard Clara exhale, felt her head tilt to the side and her heart gave a jump just before it began to slow and he asked her quietly, "Where do you suppose it is?"

"The Tardis?" She questioned, and when he didn't answer, she shrugged, responding, "Could be anywhere, but there are specific places for studying foreign ships. Probably one of the hangar bays underground with the scientists, make sure it doesn't fly off."

There was the hint of a giggle in her words that made him smile. He wished he'd set the HADS, it would have solved a few problems. They wouldn't know where the Tardis was, but at least they could have gone out in search of it – a grand adventure for them that might not involve being shot at, or potentially killed, he considered, fingers tightening at her waist just thinking about it. She made a murmur of confusion and he felt her shift, turning her head to try and look at him in the darkness.

"Doctor, don't worry – they can't get into the Tardis, you told me yourself," she assured before adding softly, "She'll protect herself from them."

He chuckled anxiously and then told her outright, "Don't do anything foolish, Clara."

She laughed, beginning to tell him, "I won't if you won't..."

But the Doctor pulled her closer to him, pressing her back into his chest firmly enough for her to feel his heartbeats erratically pounding there and he repeated, " _Please_ , don't do anything foolish."

She took several breaths and he imagined she nodded because her next words were a hushed, "We go in careful; we find your Tardis; we get out as quickly as possible. Deal with UNIT on our own terms at a later time," then she laughed, "Or earlier."

The words made him laugh softly along with her and he heard her intake of breath before telling her quietly and calmly, "Anything's possible, I suppose."

Clara felt his grip tighten for just a moment before he relaxed it and she knew – he was afraid she wouldn't make it into that blue box with him. She wouldn't admit it to him, but she was terrified of the same. Not because of who she was, but simply because it was UNIT and it was run by General Wallace and she knew General Wallace better than just about anyone in the building.

And he hated her.

The car turned roughly, wheels screeching loudly against the odd texture in the parking garage and then they came to a stop and Clara closed her eyes. She reached for the Doctor's hand and she held it tightly, knowing he was behind her worried sick about her. Her stomach turned over and she swallowed those pre-mission jitters before releasing him just before the click of the trunk and the sound of Alice's heels walking away from them. Because she couldn't be caught on the security cameras voluntarily letting them out, Clara explained, if anything happened to her and she was questioned, Alice needed plausible deniability.

"Ready?" The Doctor asked her on a quick whisper that sent a tremor through her body.

Nodding in the darkness, Clara asked, "Will you be ok, if I don't make it."

"Clara..." he began, but she cut him off with a sharp inhale.

"Doctor, please tell me you'll be ok."

He remained silent behind her, not wanting to think about it. The inevitable death of companions was always on his mind – whether through incident or age – but he chose not to talk about it. He chose to push it to the back of his thoughts to enjoy the wonders. Why should they have to think of their demise? Why should they have to think there might be one? Couldn't he simply offer them the possibility of an endless life for a little while?

"Promise me," Clara breathed. "Promise me if I die, you'll move on."

The Doctor exhaled raggedly – _how could she ask such a thing of him_?

"Doctor," Clara hissed, "You can't do this to yourself."

He was nodding slowly, voice caught in his throat.

"If I die, I want you to remember that there is an entire universe filled with amazing things. Things you wanted to show me; things you should show _someone_ , even if I'm not there." She swallowed roughly against the lump in her throat. "Don't look for another echo; don't go searching for another _mirage_ , Doctor."

Cracking the trunk open with his foot, just enough then to see her face in the dim garage lights, he looked over her face. Smiling at the concern there as she shifted onto her back to stare up into his glistening eyes, the Doctor inched forward and he kissed her gently. He lifted back and pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks and then a lingering one to her forehead, and then a final one firmly to her lips before he sighed as he opened his eyes to look at the serenity now easing her features.

"You were never merely a mirage, Clara; I'm sorry I made the mistake of telling you that," he explained sadly, left hand coming up to run a finger delicately along her jawline before he tapped the tip of her funny little nose to watch her smile before saying, "You are a _miracle_."

She smirked and she teased, "You're just saying that to boost my confidence."

"No, Clara," he stated firmly, "I'm saying it because it needs to be said – because I don't believe anyone has ever told you. You are a wonderful woman, a loving mother, a caring friend, and there is no one else like you in all of the universe and you are _my_ miracle."

Clara felt her heartbeat pick up as she watched the way he looked over her, no doubt in her mind that the words he spoke were the truest to him in that moment. And a small part of her understood that this was the Doctor doing for her what he never did for Clara – telling her, before it was too late, how he felt – and it terrified her because he was also doing for her what he never did for Clara... acknowledging she could die and she deserved to know how special she was to him before that happened.

Licking her lips, she opened her mouth, intent on telling him that she loved him again. Not as a response, but as a declaration. Intent on saying those words she'd denied herself the willpower to say for so many years, but his finger landed softly against her lips and he shook his head. He knew her well enough to know her intentions, and he knew her _well enough to know_. She smiled and nodded and then she pushed the trunk open with one careful kick of her right leg; one last testing of its strength.

Reluctantly, she broke eye contact with the Doctor and she slipped out of the trunk, giving the garage a once-over before waving him out, pulling her tactical pack out and slinging it on her shoulders before glancing to her personal pack left in the trunk. The one that held her son's memories. She watched the Doctor grab for it instinctively, his eyes roaming over the cars and into corners with a sharpness she hadn't expected as he pulled the straps of that old pack onto his own shoulders, looking to her and nodding.

And they moved in tandem towards a door, Clara plucking a second gun from her waistband as she examined cameras and told him quietly, "We'll need to hack the surveillance systems as soon as possible – they've probably already spotted us and are working out the best way to capture us."

He nodded, "Not a problem."

Clara laughed as they pushed into a door and began climbing stairs up. His tone had been devious; exactly what she hadn't expected somehow.

Glancing around, Clara was careful with her weapon, knowing she was limited on rounds and had to make each count. Once the stuns were depleted, she would have to use live ammo and she was certain the Doctor was hoping they wouldn't have to. She looked to a camera mounted in a corner and frowned. There was no sense in shooting them out, she knew, it would only alert them to their position, so she continually looked for any sort of paneling they could tear into, but she knew they needed to get into an office; they needed to access a computer within the building.

And she knew that would be the hardest part.

Once they were into the system, they could dismantle security, cause a little bit of wet chaos with the sprinkler systems, and locate the Tardis. If they were lucky, they had just enough soldiers on their side to carve a path for them and then they just had to make a run for the blue box Clara knew would be protected. But if those protecting it were on their side too... she wondered if Wallace was thinking the same. Wondering just who in the building was quietly waiting to support the duo now working their way through the stairs towards a less used wing of the building.

She managed a smile because she knew he was fuming. Clara knew Wallace would be questioning everyone around him. _Everyone_ would be and that was the only thing getting them this far without incident. There would be conversations happening that ordinarily wouldn't; meetings going on in which they tried to decide whether the documents were true or not. Searches into the system for information they would find classified that would lead to more questions.

"It's quite a bit emptier than I thought it would be," the Doctor finally stated, his voice startling Clara enough that she stopped moving just beside a door and backhanded him in the chest, watching his stunned reaction before he rubbed at the spot she knew wasn't sore at all anymore.

"Be quiet," she hissed.

He gestured to the door and she tried the handle, finding it locked. Clara shifted away from it and she braced herself knowing what she was going to do was either going to work, or it was going to leave her a crippled mess on the ground. And she raised her right leg and kicked roughly, sending the door swinging wide open to bang into the wall and slowly slide back towards them shakily, as though shocked.

Clara stood firm, looking down at her leg before realizing it was fine – it had healed and was perfectly fine – and she smiled at the thought. No pain, no limp, no permanent damage at all. She was lucky, she knew, striding into the office and towards a desk on which not much sat. It was an officer's, but yet to be occupied, and she watched the Doctor flick on the light and close the door, approaching her as she gestured to the computer.

"Well," she sighed, "Time to prove you're better at this than I am."

He laughed, cracking his knuckles and sitting.


	45. Chapter 45

Wallace had watched the duo enter the stairwell through the garage and he ordered Alice be taken into custody because he couldn't trust anyone, not at the moment. He eyed the young man who brought him coffee before giving it a long sniff of consideration and he looked over the woman who told him there was no news and he felt his fingers twitching as the minutes ticked on and the silence began to creep its way through the building.

 _Decisions_ , he knew, had been made.

There was a war brewing quietly within UNIT and he went to the weapons depot to remove a pistol he'd procured from the military evidence locker years ago and kept for just this sort of incident with this _particular_ Captain. He looked it over with a smile as he turned the barrel between his thumb and forefinger, listening to the rapid succession of clicks, and then he checked the bullets. It was old, something that should have been melted down and turned to bolts for cars, but he slung a new holster around his waist and sank it in, trying to get a feel for the weight.

The guns of old were heavier and harder to come by than the laser shots of the day. They were deadlier, tearing open wounds instead of burning them shut, and somehow, he thought to himself, the threat of them was more real. He slipped his laser gun into his palm and sighed. It felt like a _toy_. Always had and, he supposed, it always would, he thought as he tucked it into its own holster.

"They're getting into the system," someone told him, out of breath and trembling. A young one with a lisp he sneered at as he turned. "Wow," he whispered, "I didn't know those existed anymore. Did it come from the States?"

"That's none of your God damned business," Wallace grunted at him, watching him straighten in the doorway before he nodded. "Do we have the Tardis secured?"

"As best we can, sir," he started, "But shouldn't we be more worried about the..."

"No," Wallace barked. "His main objective is the bloody Tardis and getting Captain Palmer to it – I want everyone stationed there."

The nod the man offered was shaky, and his eyes turned away.

"What?" Wallace asked bluntly.

His mouth opened slightly, and then clamped shut, and then he looked to Wallace to tell him, "Soldiers are leaving their posts, sir; they're hacking the system as well – trying to find... _answers_." He eyed him curiously, and then asked, "Why _do_ you have that gun, General? It's not standard issue – it's not even legal to own in the UK."

The sentence hadn't completed its journey out of the young man's mouth when General Wallace plucked the laser pistol from his holster, lifting it swiftly to pierce the Private's chest, and Wallace turned away as his body dropped with the simple groan of his last exhale. He stepped over him and went into the hallway to listen to the eerie silence there that pricked his skin hotly and made him crack his neck. They were finding answers, his mind repeated, they were finding truth. He smiled. War wouldn't end, but he was certainly done for.

"Oh, Captain _Palmer_ ," he sang to himself, turning and making his way towards the Tardis room.

A few stories above, the Doctor typed ferociously while Clara stood at the door, listening for any commotion outside. She expected it and it was twisting her nerves to be hearing dead silence. Not even the tiniest taps of sneaking boots or the hushed whispers of oncoming soldiers. She waited for the clink-clink-clink of a grenade canister being rolled towards the door, prepared to run and jump behind the set of chairs that sat in the middle of the office.

The Doctor laughed then and she looked to him, wondering if he'd somehow read her mind, but his eyes were glued to the screen, amused by something he found there. He glanced up at her and waved her over and she reluctantly left her post, hurrying around the desk to stand beside him where she could see a multitude of windows open on the screen and she was about to ask him what the hell he was doing when he pointed at the surveillance footage of his Tardis in a lab, just like she'd said, his Sonic and a few other items she understood he recognized on a table a few feet away.

Even his outfit was laid out neatly, as though it were some sort of weapon to be examined.

"Just a few floors down," he told her.

"Could be a trap," she warned.

He eyed her, "Oh, of course it's a trap, but we've got no other options really."

Clara managed a weak nod, then stated, "Obviously you haven't disabled the cameras."

He shifted in the seat and pushed his lips together in annoyance, tilting his head to tell her, "Why would I want to disable the cameras?" He pointed and then clicked a button, showing her soldiers exiting the building, some mulling about in the break rooms, Wallace jogging through the halls. "We can watch them for a while, and it looks like there's not much going on."

She almost laughed. Then she shook her head, "No, it's a mistake." She gestured, "Disable the cameras, we go down cautiously..."

"Clara," he interrupted, "No one's watching us anymore."

"No," she shook her head, "We can't let our guard down like that."

"Clara."

" _Never_ let your guard down, Doctor, it gets people killed," she spat in frustration before giving him a shove in the chair and typing on the screen. "Someone's also watching us, I can guarantee it." And then lower, she reminded, "Not everyone is as easily convinced – some here are loyal to UNIT to the end."

"Like you were?" He questioned.

Her head turned swiftly, "I was loyal to me; UNIT was..."

"A means to an end," he said for her, despondently. Shifting back in the seat, he watched her continue to type and he watched the screen flicker and the screens each go to static and he asked, "Who are you loyal to now?"

She opened her mouth as she looked to him, seeing the disappointment in his eyes, and she stepped back, shaking her head, "Me."

He laughed, lightly, and nodded, telling her, "Good – I didn't expect you to say me." Standing, he gestured to the door and then back at her, "Lead with the _gun_ , it's three floors down and..."

"I know where it is," she interrupted before ordering nervously, "You stay low, you're a giant and we've got no vests. If one of us should make it to the Tardis, it should be the one who can drive it."

Exchanging a quick look – the Doctor angered she'd reminded him of the potential danger to her life; Clara frustrated he continually ignored it – they moved to the door together where he waited for her to pull it open slowly, peering out into the empty hallway before she stepped into it and they made their way to the stairwells. They walked down and Clara felt herself growing more and more nervous as each fight-less minute dragged on because she'd expected they'd win some over, but had they simply brought the establishment to a stand-still with a few simple emails?

Surely not everyone believed them.

Though maybe, Clara thought, like Alice, they'd all been waiting for that one thing that made everything make _sense_ because she knew... in the back of her mind... none of it had ever made much sense. And then she pulled open the door to the appropriate floor and felt the laser blast a chunk off the concrete beside her face and she recoiled before switching guns and hearing the Doctor say her name quickly. She didn't feel she needed to explain a stun gun against a laser was no match.

And she _intended_ to live.

Shoving the Doctor behind her, she pulled the door open into the stairwell, moving swiftly with it and watched the laser shots fly into the space in front of them. Clara switched the gun to her left hand and stepped forward, firing two blasts back and immediately swinging back into the safe space created by the wall and door while they returned fire. Looking to the Doctor, she could see his scowl of anger. Anger that anyone at UNIT would remain loyal to UNIT after reading about how they'd murdered innocent children; angered that he was being shot at and had no Sonic to disable the weapons; angered that Clara was directly in the line of fire and there was little he could do about it.

"There are three, they're out in the open. I might have hit one, but I didn't kill them," she told him softly before adding, "Which means they can still shoot us."

"We need to get on this floor," he reminded.

"Haven't forgotten," she huffed in amusement, listening to the clicks of ammunition reloading to gauge which shooters were reloading and which still had their weapon primed and aimed. She thought back to all of the times she'd sat in a gun range perfecting her shot and how when she turned that corner again, someone would probably die. Then she took a breath, a long breath that slowed her heartbeat just a bit before she swung out and fired three shots and curled her body back against the door, listening.

The hallway went silent and she looked up into the somber look the Doctor was giving her. Not quite upset with her, but not thrilled either. And she knew there was no way of arguing it – either she shot them or they shot her and then he was left to surrender, except they both knew what would happen upon surrender. It was a laughable option that had never been on the table.

"Come on," he spoke solemnly, stepping out into the hallway and beginning to walk past the dead soldiers as Clara let her head drop back to bang lightly into the door she was leaning against. And then he called her name and she jumped to follow him, rushing to catch up and move around him, training her weapon out to check each corridor as they passed and she was angered that he was walking so quickly and with no hesitation. Clara wanted to scream at him, because it was foolish and dangerous, but they managed to reach the doorway without incident and they pushed through, Clara ready for an attack that never came.

She watched the Doctor step towards the table and bow his head, a small grin turning his lips as he lifted the Sonic into his palm and flicked it opened, giving the air a buzz before closing it to pocket it. He did the same with a few other things, testing each as though they might have been damaged, and then dropping them into the trouser pockets she imagined were becoming quite heavy.

"Clarice Palmer," he stated as he looked to her, "Are you ready to depart?"

Her hand fell to her side and her body relaxed just a bit. Just enough for her to smile and nod and bite back on tears she wanted to let lose as she followed him towards the box, watching him snap his fingers at doors that flung themselves open for him. Glad to be seeing their Doctor. She moved slowly, more anxious about stepping into that box than she'd been about heading into the building, and she looked to her feet as she placed the first just inside. Clara laughed and she moved into the box, hearing the warbled groan of an engine as she raised her head to look at the center console and then she watched the Doctor's giddy smile.

"It really is bigger on the inside," she breathed, watching him remove her backpack from his shoulders to drop underneath the console as he began to lift levers and toggle switches. Clara laughed, hands coming up to her face to cup her mouth, gun pressing awkwardly against her cheek. "My stars," she exclaimed as her arms fell away.

"Well," the Doctor shouted, "Close those doors! We've got work to do!"

He smiled up at her as she bounced, body doing a turn, and then he glanced down at the controls, fingertips trailing over the space in front of him as he took a long breath, missing the smell of her, until he heard the bang of the doors shutting.

Except it wasn't the bang of the doors shutting.

Eyes lifting up slowly, he could see those doors still standing slightly agape, and Clara's hands slipped off each, her gun clattering to the floor and rolling over the edge to crack against the lower level as she turned and offered him a frown of confusion. One he mimicked before he saw the wet mass at her chest, and the menacing grin on the General standing just a few feet away outside, weapon still drawn.


	46. Chapter 46

The Doctor wanted to scream, but his voice was gone. His hearing was gone. His sense of existence seemed to be gone because he felt as though he were floating in one spot, frozen in time, watching her small grin as she reached up to tentatively touch the bullet wound just to the left of center of her chest, the blood pooling out into her dark shirt, and then he saw her beginning to drift forward – beginning her descend to the ground in a fall he didn't want to register was happening because no.

 _No_ , he thought simply.

Hadn't he just gone through this?

Hadn't he just convinced himself it would _never happen again_?

In a flash his fingers came up in a snap that shut the doors as he rushed forward to catch her because he wouldn't let her fall again. He wouldn't let her crumple to the ground the way she had before. The way her former self had, he reminded himself as he listened to her shout out against the pain of the wound. A bullet, he knew. An old fashioned bullet that had remained lodged, somewhere in her chest, instead of a laser that could cut clean through and cauterize the majority of the wound. An old fashioned bullet that had ripped at her flesh, leaving it open and bleeding.

An old fashioned bullet, just like her husband had used.

He collapsed onto the hard metal, holding her in his lap, hand failing to find an exit wound at her back as he examined her and he watched her laugh lightly, then she winced, eyes closing tightly, her head shaking slowly. Because she couldn't believe it was happening; Clara refused to believe the pain in her chest and the way her heart was slowing and her body was going cold so fast.

So very _very_ fast.

"I just got here," she muttered.

The Doctor laughed feebly with her, because for a moment he imagined her age rather than her time in the Tardis. Thirty. Only a third of her life lived. Lived in so much turmoil with so many losses and so much pain. And she'd just gotten there – to a moment where everything might be alright. Where everything might start to make sense again and she could laugh freely and love freely and live freely. Where she could experience all of the wonder that life had to offer.

 _With him_.

"Just hold on," he shouted, but his voice wavered as he watched the blood continue to seep into her clothes as the color drained from her skin.

She laughed.

It was the most terrible sound he had ever heard because he understood it was acceptance. Clara knew this time the shooter hadn't missed their mark, at least not by enough; she knew there was nothing that could be done and she opened her eyes to look up at the Doctor. Clara frowned then, seeing the way his eyes had dimmed of their sparkle and she understood – he would lose her the same way he'd lost _her_ and she couldn't decide if it was more ironic or cruel.

But she knew what it definitely _was_.

Bringing her hand up to brush against the side of his face, her brow tightened and she sighed, "This isn't fair, Doctor." Not, she knew angrily, to either of them.

"Clara," he said simply.

As though her name were a prayer, a request for her to survive, she thought as she watched him snap back into focus just enough to look back to her wound. He pulled his Sonic and ran it over her and he heard the small sound of amusement she made as he read the results and he growled, then shouted, hearing his own voice echo loudly through the Tardis, and then he listened to the machine bong in reply, saddened for him.

"No," he stated. "No, I won't lose you. Not this way; not again."

"Doctor," she told him plainly, voice weak. Because she knew – she absolutely knew. She could feel the life leaving her and she understood, in some strange way. Maybe that's what all the echoes felt, she thought sadly. She'd helped get him back to his Tardis and maybe she'd helped him move on and that's what she was there to do – help the Doctor. Though she was angry. Angry she hadn't gotten more for it. Clara sighed and looked to the ceiling of the Tardis control room.

It would have been wonderful to travel for just a little bit.

"No," he told her again, head giving a rough shake.

She grimaced and then asked, "Could you leave my body for my mum? _Yeah_ ," she exhaled; thinking, but never saying aloud, " _Yeah, that seems right_ ," and the Doctor felt his eyes burning at the injustice of it because the thought had made its way into his mind.

The way they sometimes used to.

With Clara. _His_ Clara.

Her head rolled to the right, against his arm, and he shouted, giving her a slight shake and watching her hiss in pain before her eyes opened again to look up at him. And there was something peaceful about those dark eyes then; something just a little bit different that tamed his heartbeats a touch. Just enough to hear her slow soft giggle as her right hand reached out absently and he took it, gripping it tightly before he brought it to his lips, eyes closing as he kissed those slender frozen fingers.

"Please, Clara," he whimpered against her knuckles.

Her shoulders moved, as if to shrug, but the motion never quite completed itself. She merely remained still in his arms, staring up at him sadly, that small grin plastered there just like his Clara had done – just like Charlie had done. Seemingly content to end their time with the one they loved most. He frowned and dropped his forehead to hers, feeling an anger bubbling up inside of him, subdued only by the notion that these could be her last breaths and he didn't want to waste them on rage.

The Doctor cried softly, "You were supposed to come with me. _One last hurrah_ ," his last words were lost to a tightening of his throat at the memories.

Clara coughed and her forehead slipped from his to the side again and he frowned, shifting back and looking down at her closed eyes and her lips lying slightly open. He touched her cheek, seeing the bloody thumbprint he left there and he blinked at tears that overwhelmed his eyes. And then she took a small breath and smiled, turning to look at him with sleepy eyes to say, "I am always with you, Doctor. Thought I'd made that clear by now."

"Clara?" He asked lightly, brow coming up in surprise.

"Hey," she breathed, her smile widening.

He laughed, "Is it you? Actually, _properly_ , you?"

"Confirmed, actually properly," she whispered before assuring, "It's always me, just bits and pieces. Memories not all quite there. I don't…" Clara trailed, and then she winced and whimpered and took several labored breaths. "My heart's about had it, Doctor."

"It's not fair," he moaned. "I was supposed to save you; I was supposed to save her. It's what I came here to do; it's what I needed to do."

Her head tilted lazily against his arm and she groaned, "Come on Doctor, we both know the truth."

"No," he argued, "We know the _odds_. And I had intended to beat those odds. Clara deserved that. You, every one of you, has always deserved that."

She gripped his hand and he could see her struggling to breath, her free hand coming up to press against her chest, as though she might be able to stop whatever was happening to her with a little pressure. The Doctor looked away because he knew, it would never be that simple. There was a tear just big enough in her heart, just like before; a tear sending her blood rushing out on each terrified beat of the organ, slowly drumming down her life like an hourglass.

"Run…" Clara began softly, eyes closed, lips lifting.

"Don't you dare say it," he ordered.

Her eyes opened and she smiled up at him, reaching to touch his face, her bloodied fingertips trailing lightly over his skin and making him shiver and bend into her touch. He should have taken her and he _should have_ run. The Doctor should have run with Clara to the end of the Earth and back again until the end of her time. He should have given her the world and watched her grow old happily in his company.

"I loved you," he told her, "I'm sorry I never told you."

She laughed lightly, hoarsely, and she sighed, "Doctor, you never needed to say it."

"No," he shook his head, "But you needed to hear it."

"And I did," she gasped, and then whispered, "In every word you ever told me, I promise you I did."

He watched her smile and he watched her exhale and he watched her die. His body jerked forward with a sob and he pulled it back, sniffling loudly as he looked around the reds and purples of the Tardis, how it glowed and pulsed and then darkened. Mourning over Clara with him as he turned back to look at her again. The Doctor raised his hand, placing his thumb and forefinger against her eyebrows and he slid them down, closing her eyes. He gently laid her down against the cool metal and he kissed her lips before they lost their warmth. One final goodbye, he knew.

Because it _was_ goodbye.

There would be no more echoes and no more mourning and no more standing still because Clara wanted him to move forward. All of her wanted him to reach into the stars and explore. To find new eyes through which to see it and to be brave with them and bold for them. And _live_. Live beyond her life for her, he promised. "I will," he sighed against those lips. " _Never backwards; always forward_ ," he sighed, remembering her words from what felt like an eternity ago.

Inhaling deeply, forehead pressed to hers, he tried to find those last thoughts still floating about in her mind, but there were none. She had been at peace; she had died at peace. His hearts burned as he lifted himself up away from her, legs shaking as he stood as straight as his pain would let him, and he turned to fall against the console, gripping its edges for support.

 _Leave my body for my mum_.

He nodded, whispering, "Ok, Clara," thinking about how terrible the words must have felt for her – knowing how hard she'd tried to keep that from happening. _Another mum, burying her child_. The Doctor clicked a few buttons, then turned a dial and there was an explosion just at the door. It couldn't penetrate, he knew, but it had sent a small vibration through the ship and the Doctor reached slowly for his monitor, bringing up the external view to see General Wallace aiming a laser pistol at the doors, sending another scorching blast towards it in anger.

Clenching his teeth, the Doctor punched a few more buttons and the Tardis began to dematerialize, leaving Clara behind on the ground just feet from the man. Wallace might have smiled, he might have been able to take some small pleasure in seeing her corpse, but the world around him shifted. It became warmer and redder, fading in and out until he realized he was no longer standing inside UNIT, but inside of the Tardis itself. Standing at the entranceway to the console, staring up into a set of determined silver eyes.


	47. Chapter 47

Wallace's first instinct had been to laugh. Surely the Doctor wasn't this foolish, bringing him aboard with a loaded weapon just feet from him. He lifted the laser gun and pointed it at him, cocking his head as he pulled the trigger. And then he pulled it again, and again, listening to the silence as he looked from the Doctor's sly grin to the un he held before he shook it and pulled the trigger again. And again. And again. Damning the weapon and slapping it and then trying even more.

"It won't work in here," the Doctor finally told him coolly. Wallace raised his eyes to look at him, at the shrug the other man offered nonchalantly before telling him quietly with a hint of a shrug, "I have a thing about guns. Don't like 'em."

He pushed a lever and the Tardis swung into the vortex, sending Wallace roughly into the railings beside him with a grunt, his gun falling beneath the console to join Clara's as he clung to the metal, listening to those weapons clack about underneath them.

Looking up to the spinning time rotor, Wallace shouted furiously, "What are you doing?"

The Doctor typed, his face blank, and he glanced up into his monitor, keeping track of their movements through time and space. Calculating where they needed to go and slapping the machine that reluctantly obeyed as he responded, "Travelling." He smiled and tiled his head. "Sort of what I do."

Wallace sneered.

"Oh," the Doctor called, brow rising as he pointed towards him before going back to the controls to continue fighting with his ship. He continued loudly over the engines roar, "You mean what am I doing with _you_ , here, _in my Tardis_." He landed and slapped the monitor, unable to get an exact reading to know if he'd landed where and when he'd wanted. Throwing a frustrated look up at the time rotor and the lights that glowed a vicious red, the Doctor frowned because he couldn't decipher – was she angrier at _him_ or at _Wallace_.

He chose to believe the pig faced man who remained frozen just inside the Tardis doors.

"Take me back," Wallace ordered, one hand waving to point back at that entrance.

"Or what?" The Doctor asked blankly. "You'll _shoot_ me?" He offered a smile, but there was no amusement in either his voice or the gesture and he walked towards Wallace and then past him, knowing his lack of fear terrified the General, to touch the doors and tell him, "She was supposed to travel with me, you know. It was the agreement we'd made." He turned his head to look at the confused expression on Wallace's face before glancing to the doors. "She wouldn't have harmed anyone she didn't have to at UNIT – she wouldn't have destroyed you like you rightfully deserved – and I would have rewarded her with the universe for much less."

Wallace twisted fully to look at the man who'd remained with his back turned, and he took a few short breaths and spat, "Releasing that information, you destroyed UNIT anyways."

"I destroyed what you made it," he barked back, body rigid as he spun around to face the General.

"I made it what it should have been from the start," he replied quickly, a devious smile flashing onto his lips before it dove back into his anger. "Global organization for peace. It's what it's always striven to be, but was limited by limited minds and political farce."

On a short nod, the Doctor gestured back, "Don't you want to see where we've gone?"

Considering him, Wallace wondered where they _had_ gone. They could be two rooms away, he knew, or they could be two galaxies away. They could be ten minutes earlier or ten million years into the future. He nodded slowly and asked him lowly, "Where've we gone?"

"Answers," the Doctor stated.

Wallace shrugged, "Is that the name of a place?"

Shaking his head, the Doctor stated, "No, it's what I _want_ to show you where we've _gone_."

On a laugh, Wallace crossed his arms and nodded, "Answers – you want _answers_." Then he pushed out his bottom lip and turned away, shifting his vision back to laugh, "Ok, answers to what?"

"This war," the Doctor began, "It wasn't there before, my absence at a singular event caused it. _How_?"

Pointing, Wallace grunted, "You wanna know how you're at fault. Been weighing on your conscious all of this time. Would it have if it weren't for her?"

Shrugging, the Doctor replied, "It would always have weighed on my conscious, Clara or not. It's war. Innocent lives lost for no reason. Got a bit of experience with how that weighs on one's conscious – how it eats at one's soul. But not _yours_."

Slowly nodding and looking to the controls behind him – controls he imagined would ignore all of his attempts to use them – and then back at the set of double doors behind the Doctor – doors through which anything could sit – Wallace sighed. "We needed control and sometimes the only way to gain control is to create chaos."

"We," the Doctor repeated.

"Woman approached me in my early days. She had a plan. Tricky plan for world domination – seemed fairly intent on that – and she told me _all about you_. She said you would be the only thing stopping her, stopping us. Well," his hand came up, "You and your companion. For now, Clara and all of her echoes."

"She," the Doctor said simply.

He laughed, "Called herself Missy." The Doctor's hearts gave a jolt as he remained stone-faced, waiting for Wallace to continue, "Said she was like you, went on and on lyrically about how she'd done so many destructive things and how she deserved so much loyalty and blah blah _blah_ … but she wasn't as clever as she thought." He tapped at his head, "See, she assumed I would like being second in command and I let her believe that for as long as it took."

On a nod, the Doctor asked, "So what, you tricked her. Good on you."

"Tricked is a nice word," Wallace stated, and the Doctor pulled open the door to look out on the red rocky landscape and listen to the screams as something exploded in the distance just before he looked back to see Wallace curiously looking out at the little he could see beyond the Doctor's body. He looked to see that small bit of fear creeping onto the other man's face, wiping away the smug grin he'd held.

The Doctor sighed, "What was the plan then? How did I play into this?" Because he knew Missy had approached Clara as a man, a new regeneration, and he knew this new Master had approached her willingly and claiming to be him. But it made little sense. Why do that if the plan had been to paint the Doctor a monster? His head hung, chin tapping lightly against his chin twice before he stated, "You said it would be best she disappear, take on a new face, claim to be the Doctor to come lead this new army you would quietly be creating with UNIT."

Wallace laughed then, body relaxing as he scoffed, "Oh that's the best part – that was her idea before she turned into man. She'd go off and have a few laughs gallivanting around the galaxy with that wrist device of hers. Her own little vortex manipulator. Then she'd saunter back in to save the day in a few convenient ways and soon enough she'd be leading a branch of the military, then a country, then a continent, and eventually the world because the world is filled with small-minded people who want someone to tell them what to do and who better than _you_. Because back then, everyone'd grown up with tales of the Doctor. Everyone thought you were a bloody hero."

"So what changed?" The Doctor implored gruffly.

"She stepped out of the game. She made the worst mistake she could have."

"What's that?"

"She _trusted_ me," he spat, hand slapping lightly at his own chest. "And as soon as she was gone, I started to amass followers based off what we'd started together. I made sure we were security at this supposed peace treaty and I made sure the story that got out, after everyone was dead or brainwashed, was my own – _the Doctor_ was a _traitor_." He nodded. "Yeah, Doctor, we've got nifty toys for manipulating the weak-minded and that's what the world leaders had become. Weak-minded idiots who all thought flowers and sunshine solved problems."

"So you're saying _war_ solves problems," the Doctor offered.

Wallace grunted, "War weeds out the weak from the strong. It strengthens those left behind. It molds countries into forces to be reckoned with."

The Doctor took a step outside and he glanced around, frowning at the smell of smoke and ash and how familiar it all felt, even months later. He caught a whiff of something else in the air, a light perfume he recognized and he bowed his head, eyes closed, telling his mind not to imagine things that were long gone. "And you set out to create a military state within the United Kingdom, one that could slowly conquer the world. You took Missy's plan and you replaced her as head." He turned, "Hasn't anyone ever told you those sorts of things always fail? A millennia of history and trying to conquer a world fails every single time."

"Why?" Wallace shouted, walking towards him, showing the Doctor he was unafraid of whatever stood outside of those doors. "Why should I believe it would fail? Why even fathom it would fail!? I had everyone under my thumb – entire legions of soldiers around the globe ready to follow my command." He laughed, "Your precious Clara, with only a few months under my command, aimed a gun at someone she should have loved and she fired until there was nothing left of him to identify."

The Doctor laughed and he continued his walk away from Wallace, kicking lightly at stones on the ground and thinking back to that beach around the lake. He thought about Clara's smile and how she stared out at the water and he turned and watched Wallace take several steps out himself, testing the ground before glancing around himself to get a feel for the volcanic landscape and the cries of another war in another time. Hiding his confusion because it was another one the Doctor _thought_ he had stopped.

"Millions of soldiers around the globe and the one you needed to control?" The Doctor smiled. "You couldn't."

He pointed, "She killed you."

"No," the Doctor shouted, "She killed the Master. If it had been me on that street, we would have been having this confrontation months ago because she never would have been able to do it."

Wallace turned and leaned back, hands balling into fists at his sides as he scoffed, "Then that lunatic friend of yours was right."

The Doctor shook his head in confusion as Wallace turned his attention back to him and clenched his jaw, readying himself for whatever came next because he could see already he was going to be in for a fight and he was quite prepared, watching the Tardis doors slowly close. He nodded then, asking Wallace with a sly grin, "What was she right about?"

"You're the one we have to get rid of," Wallace growled just before launching himself at the Doctor.


	48. Chapter 48

Of course it hurt when they collided, the Doctor thought as he fell back towards that rocky ground, but instead of giving the other man the satisfaction of hearing him groan with pain, he released a small laugh into Wallace's ear, just loud enough to elicit an angry growl in response. Clara would never get her fight with the man – the one she'd rightfully deserved and rightfully deserved to win – so the Doctor would stand in her place for as long as he could. Hopefully he would emerge the victor.

Quick and with closed eyes, he reached out to grab at Wallace's hands, deflecting the punches he was throwing angrily down at him. _Erratic_ , he knew. And he managed to grunt, "You're quite unskilled at this, for someone who holds the rank of General."

They rolled, the Doctor ignoring the jagged edges that poked at his body and tore at his clothes. He pulled Wallace to stand and he tossed him aside, watching him lose his balance and fall to the ground, hands splayed out to stop his fall. He listened to him scream out in pain just before bringing his hands up to look at them, at the cuts on his palms and the blood beginning to slowly trail from them.

"I'm going to kill you," Wallace shouted, standing shakily and turning to aim a deadly stare at him.

The Doctor nodded, "Again?" He laughed. "Kill me a thousand times and I'll still find a way to come back for you."

"For her?" Wallace scoffed.

He shook his head, a dark laugh rattling his lungs. "For all of the people who lost their lives; for all of the people who lost their loved ones," he started. Then he took a pained breath and shouted, "For all of the mothers who buried their children because of your incessant need for power."

"That boy," Wallace huffed, "Was pathetic. Weak and needy."

"He was three!" The Doctor bellowed, hearing warning sirens going off in the distance, shaking his head against the familiarity of them as he took a step towards Wallace. "Do you even understand what you did? You bombed children – _children_ – to make sure one boy died to harden the heart of one woman to make sure she killed your enemy. You sacrificed the future…"

Wallace threw himself at the Doctor, arms wrapping at his waist, and they went tumbling to the ground again, this time the General connecting a fist solidly against the Doctor's jaw. A shock of pain went through his skull and he felt a sudden disorientation just before a second punch landed and then a third.

" _It was my future_!" Wallace shrieked.

Arms coming up weakly to defend himself, the Doctor replied softly, "You're insane."

His movements stopping, Wallace looked down at the Doctor, pinned underneath him, and he grumbled roughly through clenched teeth, "I spent over thirty years of my life building that future and that one soldier – that one _bitch_ … she never could follow an order worth a damn – that one insignificant gnat managed to destroy it."

"All it takes is one," the Doctor laughed back. "Just one person to say _no, no this isn't right_. To start something different and turn the world around and right its course." The Doctor smiled up at the anger in Wallace's eyes and he nodded, "All it takes to end a war is one, and the only thing you've ever been right about in this whole thing is she was a bonfire, General, and she was _grand_!"

Screaming, Wallace moved forward to pummel the Doctor, but he'd grabbed at a rock, bringing it up to smash across the General's cheek and he scrambled away when the man rolled to his side in pain, hands coming up to his face. The Doctor grimaced, hands pressing into shards of volcanic rock, but he managed to stand and look back at Wallace, struggling to maintain his balance. And then he saw the Silurian rushing towards them, sword raised high to attack.

"Wallace!" He shouted, gasping as the other man narrowly avoided being sliced, his body twisting away from the gleaming metal, already splattered red with blood.

The Doctor plucked his Sonic from the right pocket of his trousers and he aimed it at the Silurian as it grabbed for something its waist. He wasn't sure if it was a gun or some sort of signal to the others to join him, but the Doctor wasn't intent on finding out. He buzzed the air and the item crackled and then fell to the ground as the Silurian raised its eyes to him.

He was too early, he thought with a shake of his head. _Had he_ arrived far too early – there should be no Silurians on this planet, _not anymore_. Or was this another ripple? With a terrifying look at the creature now studying him, the Doctor wondered if this had been another disastrous result of Clara's death. He hadn't stayed to make sure life on the planet – _balance on the planet_ – had been restored. Maybe it never had.

"What is the year?" He bellowed against the crashes of explosions in the distance.

The Silurian merely hissed, and then turned back to Wallace, who was slowly closing the gap.

Holding a hand up, the Doctor warned, "You know nothing of this, Wallace, it's best you keep a distance – we don't know how they'll react."

Wallace unlatched a knife from his waistband and sneered back, "It's already tried to run me through once, Doctor, I'm not giving it another opportunity."

"Good that," the Doctor nodded, eyes shifting between the two soldiers now poised to strike at one another and trying to decide which was deadlier: the Silurian with the sword or the General with the need for revenge. "Come closer to me, we can get back to the safety of the Tardis…" he began.

" _Safety of the Tardis_ ," Wallace repeated in annoyance. "I'd have thought you a better warrior than this, Doctor… history certainly has been kind to your legacy."

The Doctor straightened, "Being a warrior means bringing the fight to your enemy, yes, but that fight doesn't always have to involve death – sometimes it involves a kindness, an understanding, a second chance."

"Flowery terms," Wallace replied quickly, "This thing here? It's bred for battle, not diplomacy and negotiation, and you know that."

Bowing his head slightly, the Doctor conceded the point, and then he looked to the Silurian and stated calmly with a raised hand, "This isn't your war, soldier."

It hissed and then its tongue shot out and the Doctor recoiled, jerking away from the deadly poison, and in that moment, Wallace moved forward swiftly and the Doctor turned back in time to see the spark of their blades crashing together. They pushed off one another, legs bracing against the loose rocks underneath them, eyes gleaming with anger and deadly intentions, and the Doctor went back to the Tardis. He rushed beneath the center console and he searched out the weapons, finding both of the laser guns and frowning at them a moment before emerging again to find the two slashing at one another.

The Silurian made a cut in Wallace's thigh and Wallace jabbed his knife into the Silurian's side and they both slipped back from one another just before the Doctor pointed one of the laser guns at the ground near them and he fired off a single shot. It blasted the dirt and rocks and both figures stopped to look at him curiously.

Wallace laughed and he pointed and he shouted, "And there's a man."

But in that distraction, the Silurian swung his blade around and embedded it in Wallace's chest, pushing it through as his knife clattered to the ground, and then twisting it as Wallace grabbed at the chain mail the Silurian wore, gasping against the blood now pooling into his left lung and flooding out from his heart. The sword had pierced both and the man knew it, pushing off from the Silurian with a grunt as his body dislodged itself from the metal and dropped to the ground.

The Silurian raised its bloody sword again, but the Doctor shot again at the ground, followed by a pained, "No!" that echoed out over the barren crimson landscape. He'd seen enough death and enough destruction and as he looked to Wallace, falling forward onto the ground, his cheek connecting roughly with the rocks as his mouth coughed a splatter of blood over them, he closed his eyes.

There was a squeal and they snapped back open to see the Silurian stomp several steps towards him, sword raised in his direction, and the Doctor fired off again. His aim wasn't the best, but he'd achieved his goal – the ground a foot in front of the Silurian burst and the alien stopped again, head tilting curiously to look at him. To question why he wouldn't merely kill him for what he'd done.

"No more," the Doctor stated quietly, the words bringing back a memory he wished he could forget. A moment he'd been able to take back, but couldn't remove from his mind. He shook his head and looked at the Silurian breathing heavily before him, and he stated again, "No more."

It glared at him for a moment, and then it looked around, head shifting quickly, listening, and then it began to ran away and the Doctor's body relaxed as he let the guns fall to the ground to make his way to Wallace, gasping against the ground, sputtering blood and spit from his mouth as he struggled to breathe. Sonic raised, the Doctor knelt beside him and scanned him and then pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, pinching painfully.

"You're dying," he spat.

Wallace coughed a laugh.

"And for what," the Doctor bellowed at him. He stood as the man stopped breathing and shouted over the distant sound of something disengaging – a long loud hum that drowned out his words, "All of this _pain_ and all of this _death_ and all of this _insanity…_ _for what_?"

And then he heard her voice.

"My stars, Doctor! It actually worked."

There came a laugh and his breath left him as he bent, hearing himself reply in feigned anger from a distance, "Oi, don't diss the Sonic!"

The Doctor plucked up the knife beside Wallace quickly and rushed up the rocky terrain, up towards the hill to see Clara standing atop another hill a quarter of a mile away, just inside the remnants of an old building, its walls mostly blasted away from war. And he looked to the Silurian in the dip between them, legs pumping furiously, sword swinging as he rushed towards Clara, who was moving, the Doctor knew, towards his past self – ready to celebrate by throwing caution to the wind. Letting her guard down just long enough for that Silurian to approach quietly and kill her.

His mind flashed, seeing Clara back in the cabin, staring at him as he'd told her, " _If I could fix it, Clara_..."

And he could hear her laughter, laughter she tried to hide as she'd teased, " _Rewrite time? For me_?"

Looking to the knife in his hand, and then down at the Silurian, and then up at Clara, disappearing further into that building to look for him, he shook his head and stated firmly, "Yes," and he launched himself down the hillside. Because he would. For Clara, he would try.


	49. Chapter 49

His hearts pounded heavily in his chest as he listened to the wind whipping past his ears, his mind focused on a single thought: _he could do it_. He could entirely re-write time. _For Clara_ the Doctor could stop her death and he could watch her walk away with a laugh and a little dance, because he knew she would sway with glee as that weapon and his Sonic came down at her sides. She would laugh and she would ask him if he were alright and they would go back to the village just a few miles away – away from the barren and broken landscape the Silurians had been hiding underneath.

The ground crunched loudly underneath each heavy step he took. Each sending a jolt up his tired legs as he urged them to move faster, ignoring the burning in his muscles as he began to catch up with the Silurian – a creature that knew he was being chased and began to turn to look at him, to gauge just how far the man behind him was and in a flash the soldier skidded to a halt and turned to raise its blade, sending the Doctor slipping to the ground, sliding underneath the swing of that metal.

Missing his nose by a breath.

"Stop," the Doctor hissed, body aching as he scrambled to stand, hands held up in defense, the knife still held firmly in his right.

" _Stop_ ," the Silurian repeated sarcastically, head bopping quickly just before a patronizing laugh. It was a male, the Doctor knew, young. So very young. A boy even. Those were the weapons of war, he knew, boys and girls too young to be sentenced to this life; too young to be able to choose it. He shook his head as he listened to that voice tell him lowly, "The female homosapien has disengaged our weapon."

Nodding, the Doctor explained, "Yes, yes she has, and if you drop yours, I can make sure you live."

He cocked his head, suspicious of him.

"No one else has to die today," the Doctor urged. " _Please_."

The Silurian hissed at him and his tongue shot out and the Doctor swung his knife on instinct, slicing the last few inches of it off as the Silurian let out a quick scream – one that had the Doctor turning to look up at that hill to make sure Clara hadn't heard. If she'd heard, she might investigate and if she investigated and found him – if she found the Doctor – fighting a Silurian, she would fight with him.

And she would die, he knew.

Again.

" _Please_ ," the Doctor pleaded, watching the Silurian's free hand covering his mouth, giving the blood there a swipe before flicking the excess to the ground and gripping his sword tightly.

Gesturing up at the hill, the Silurian laughed, "You die, Time Lord, and then the woman dies."

He took a breath, body tensing, and he raised his knife quickly as the Silurian attacked.

The first blow sent a shock of pain up his arm, rattling his collar and jerking his neck harshly, and he reached out with his free hand to grab at the Silurian's striking arm, pushing it aside and shifting back as he turned, swinging the blade inches from his chest with another hiss. If he could just hold this creature off for a few more minutes, the Doctor knew, it would divert time. Clara's timeline would extend, it would change, it would ripple out into the universe and he would change.

 _Everything would change_.

He grunted as he raised the knife to block another swing, and then another, and he fell to the ground, rolling away and hearing the weapon clink against the rocks at his side. He felt the debris slap against his back, and then he rolled to his feet again, looking to the Silurian who stood, poised to strike again. With a small nod, the Doctor lifted a hand and beckoned him forward, trying to give him a menacing smile through the terror freezing his chest as he looked up to that hill.

" _So, Doctor, what's next_?"

" _We get flower crowns, I suppose, as it's their tradition – let's go find out_."

The words were new in his mind. The memory of her smile bursting to life in his visual cortex as he fought the alien now relentlessly attacking. He could feel the warmth of her hand in his and her body pressing against his side as they'd walked away, back towards the village, each with a careful eye on their surroundings. The Doctor laughed as it flashed against the memory of her lifeless body in his arms. The two timelines struggling to co-exist in his memories.

 _Everything_. He thought as he pushed the Silurian off him.

 _Would_. He emphasized as he swung the knife down.

 _Change_. He challenged as he growled loudly.

"She _deserves_ a second chance," the Doctor spat into the Silurian's face as he gripped the sword's blade, letting it cut lightly into his skin, and the Silurian's hand. He grimaced as he began to press down, teeth gnashing as he listened to the creature squeal because he knew that sword would be the end of him – he could see the determination in the Doctor's eyes. With a scream that terrified him, the Doctor sank all of his weight forward in one quick jerk and felt that blade press through the flesh and bone at his neck and his eyes closed as the blood began to flow and the Silurian gurgled and then went silent.

He exhaled and he turned away and he took a breath.

It should have been relief, but it was more like disbelief.

The Doctor's hands came loose and he fell to his side, stumbling away blindly on his hands and knees, his tears falling as his stomach emptied itself. He looked to the lifeless alien just a few feet away and instead of feeling hatred and satisfaction, he felt _emptiness_ – the same as he'd felt before, when he'd killed him last. He shifted onto his backside, feeling the winds blowing through his hair, and he waited for more new memories, but they didn't come. He pulled himself to his feet and he moved up that hill, groaning against the effort, and he reached the top, peering through the remnants of that building, seeing it empty, and he climbed up.

The ground where he'd held her last sat untouched by death, and he laughed softly, bloody hand coming to his stomach because it ached. It ached with guilt and fear because he knew he could take ten more steps and understand he was wrong and there was no re-writing her death. She could be lying in his arms just beyond that building, some other Silurian soldier finishing the job the one he'd killed had intended to do.

And then he heard her laugh, soft and fluttering through the wind to tickle his ears just before she asked confidently, "So, Doctor, what's next?"

There was a moment of silence as he stepped to the edge of an opening and he could see her standing there with him, both looking disheveled and exhausted. And he watched as his former self shrugged and listened as he responded delightfully, "We get flower crowns, I suppose, as it's their tradition," then he gave her a wild smile and offered a hand, "Let's go find out."

And she smiled.

That glorious flashing of teeth and that deepening of her dimple and the Doctor turned to lean against the cold stone of the broken wall, letting his head drop roughly against it before he looked back out towards where he'd landed his Tardis. If he were right, he would cross that rocky landscape and he'd step into his Tardis and she would be waiting for him. If he were right, the altering of this event would alter a steady stream of events through time and space and he huffed a small laugh at the thought because there was so much potential for it all to go incredibly wrong.

But for once… _for just this once_ … everything could go incredibly _right_.

He held his hand against his stomach, pressing to stop the bleeding in his palm as he began the slow walk back, because he was terrified it wouldn't. The Doctor could have changed more than just that moment and there was no guarantee that it would ricochet through time the way he imagined.

His memories hadn't altered themselves, or rather, no more new ones had emerged to combat the ones that still weighed heavily on his hearts, and the notion frightened him. What if they'd both met their end minutes later and he was in the process of fading from time itself. He knew it was a possibility. Anything was a possibility now. His eyes closed as he reached the edge of that open space where Wallace still lay – he would always be there now, a remnant of another timeline.

Or he would always be there because nothing had changed.

Head touching the blue wood of that box, the Doctor whispered quietly, " _Please, please let this not all have been for naught_."

Taking a breath, he gripped the handle and he pushed it in, stepping into the Tardis and closing the door behind him to hear the machine welcome him with a set of odd sounds. He stared at the doors, too frightened to turn around until he heard her clear her throat.

"There was a time you would have told me that meddling with time in that fashion wasn't recommended," Clara told him slowly. "There was a time you would have outright forbid it. There was a time you did."

He turned slowly and looked to her, sitting in one of the seats around the console, Clara's backpack settled just beside her ankles, Raggy Bear held loosely in her lap, flopping back and forth as she looked at it with a smile he couldn't classify as she waited for him respond. He swallowed roughly and took a few steps towards her, eyeing the Tardis console and convincing himself the machine wouldn't be so cruel as to create a hologram to argue with.

On a nod, the Doctor told her quietly, "It was never my intention…"

Clara flopped the bear and laughed, interrupting, "It's never your intention, is it, Doctor?"

"Are you angry?" He questioned firmly, unable to read her where she sat, still looking to the bear.

"I have memories of dying," she told him slowly. "I have memories of pain and confusion and darkness and I have memories of flower crowns and mocking a prime minister's hat and stopping a young soldier named Wallace. I have memories of signing a treaty as a honorary member of a committee with you by my side just as I have memories of looking up at you and feeling my last breath leave my body." She laughed at the bear. "Am I _angry_?" Her eyes came up and she shrugged, then offered lightly, "No," before her brow came up and she supplied calmly, "I'm alive – sort of a plus. A lot of new things in the plus column for us I wouldn't take back, it'll come back to you soon."

There was a laugh, sitting just inside of his chest, but it remained there, too scared to emerge for fear he'd done wrong in her eyes, and he took another step forward as she stood, holding the bear to her stomach. "The Tardis arrived earlier than I'd asked."

Clara reached to touch the console, sighing a gentle, " _Thank you, Tardis_."

The Doctor stepped closer to her, his hands itching to hold her, his lips burning to kiss her, his very skin buzzing to be nearer to her. But he stopped, reaching for the metal at his side instead, his injured hand falling to his side as he stated, "I'm confused, there should be new memories."

And then she smiled.

A beautifully radiant smile that calmed his existence as she told him quietly, "There will be." Then she reached for the controls and began to work at them, the bear still held against her protectively, lovingly, _knowingly_ – something that soothed his hearts in an odd way. Clara took them into the vortex with a grin up towards the time rotor and when they landed, she nodded to the doors and told him softly, "Go on – unfinished business and all. Sort of the weird thing about all of this, having memories you don't for the moment; memories you need."

He laughed, "Clara, what…"

But she pointed before hugging the bear to her, "There are memories you have to finish before they're complete." She turned and moved to place the bear down in the console seat, offering it a cheeky smile as she smoothed the jumper she wore over her body and looked back at him, laughing, "Go on, Doctor. She's waiting for you."


	50. Chapter 50

He turned just as there came a tug on the door. The Doctor shifted towards it, hearing the wood squeak and a small grunt, and he frowned, looking back to see Clara's smile growing, as though she knew exactly who worked fervently at the handle. And he felt a hint of recognition tickle at the back of his mind just before the door finally gave and a set of tiny feet came storming into the Tardis, bolting past him, and launched up into Clara's arms with a wild laugh.

The Doctor stood dumbfounded as she watched Clara spin once with the small child who gripped her in a tight hug and laid his head against her shoulder, inhaling her deeply with eyes closed for just a moment before he pulled himself back up and said softly, "Hi, mummy."

"Charlie," Clara responded in amusement, head bowing slightly to tap her forehead to his, "You know I'm not your mummy."

He giggled and the Doctor stared, mouth going dry as he watched the boy turn his bright eyes to him to nod and offer quickly, "Hello, Doctor." Then he stated with a tilting of his head, sending his flop of dark hair to the side, "You're late again and we've eaten all the blackberries."

Lips separating and hanging, the Doctor hesitated, seeing the grinning child in person, hanging off Clara happily, little fingers finding her hair to twirl, and he managed to breathe a simple, "Hello, Charlie." He stepped closer to him, watching him giggle as Clara smiled, and he lifted his left hand to touch the boy's cheek, feeling it warmly in his palm as he blushed. " _Hello, Charlie_ ," the Doctor repeated, his eyes watering as he watched Charlie's smile – _Clara's smile_ – widen for him.

"Mummy's outside," the boy told him quietly, his voice just as light and airy as he'd heard in the other Clara's head and the Doctor turned to look to the doors before swinging his head back to look at Clara and then Charlie, who giggled and asked Clara, "Has he bumped his head again?"

Laughing, Clara shook her head and she moved with Charlie into the Tardis, leaving the Doctor looking from that hallway back to the front door that still stood ajar. And slowly, he turned and made his way to it, gripping the edge to peer out to see the woman walking towards him, a grin widening on her face as she took in his bewildered expression. Stepping out of the Tardis, he looked around at the sunny park and he looked back at her.

Wearing a sundress and her dark hair in a long loose ponytail, Clara stepped to him and waited as he took her in. The Doctor looked over the tanned skin and the vibrant eyes and he could tell she was at a healthier weight, body standing calmly before him with none of the rigidity it'd held before and he could see the skin at her chest, intact and unscathed. Reaching forward, he took her wrists up in his hands as she laughed quietly, and he ran his thumbs over the spaces where her scars had sat, eyes closing against the smooth skin there.

"Everything changed," he breathed.

"You changed the future," Clara responded.

He enveloped her in a tight hug, hearing her small oomph of surprise just before he pulled her back, gripping at her shoulders and looking back to the Tardis, sighing, "Charlie."

"Just about to turn four – you promised you'd come for his birthday," she reminded, head tilting the same way Charlie's had, her ponytail flicking over her shoulder.

The Doctor's eyes scanned the park and he locked eyes on a thin blonde in an oversized hat who looked up from a drawing pad to wave enthusiastically at him, and then he asked, "Tom?"

Clara frowned, "We had a few good years, we made a beautiful little boy, but in the end it just didn't work out and I think…" she glanced back at Caroline, "I think fate had other ideas."

On a laugh, the Doctor thumbed the ring on Clara's finger and he nodded as she did, smirk wrinkling her nose comically. "I…" he started, shaking his head, "I should know this," he looked to her, "You still know me."

"I remember you," Clara told him. "I remember little bits and pieces of another life – it's strange."

"Time can be that way," the Doctor supplied.

She laughed, "You remembered a few weeks ago, well a few years ago for us, and came to check on us, give us a bit of news, but I guess this is the catch-up; one timeline merging with another." She frowned a bit, admitting, "I'm afraid I'll forget now, just as you remember again."

He shook his head, "Somehow I doubt that."

"Prefer to keep those memories," she told him, "They help me appreciate everything just a bit more," she looked beyond him, to Clara standing at the entrance to the Tardis, Charlie's hand held firmly in hers. "It's sort of weird, seeing her there. She's been in his life from the moment he was born, but it's still weird. My face on someone else."

The Doctor watched her speak and he sighed, "We've been in your life."

Clara laughed, "Of course you have. She made sure of that."

He turned to see Charlie laughing up at Clara, who bent and ruffled his hair, telling him some secret that made him gasp and sway slightly as he spoke back. Comfortable, he thought, like a mother and son should be, and the idea made his hearts jump as he felt Clara twist her alms to squeeze his wrists. "I don't remember," he stated.

"You did; you will," she breathed.

He turned back to look at her and then at the city that sat brightly around the park. The way he remembered it should have been, before that war, and he questioned, "What happened, in this timeline?"

Taking a breath, Clara explained, "What _should_ have happened – that's what you told me. Clara should never have died; you should never have had to go through that loss. Time corrected itself and you went to the treaty. You stopped Wallace and the rogue band of soldiers, UNIT and otherwise, and…" she glanced around, " _Time corrected itself_."

"You lived," he whispered.

She smiled and stated, "I lived." And she looked to Charlie and breathed, "I _lived_."

The Doctor laughed, understanding her meaning all too well and he questioned, "What became of Captain Clarice Palmer then?"

Clara smirked and her head shook slightly before she wrinkled her nose, "Clarice Oswald is a happily employed teacher at her son's future school who lives with her wife in a three bedroom house and has never held a gun in her life – and never plans to."

The Doctor's hands slipped into hers and he squeezed them, exhaling a long sigh of relief as she laughed up at him and looked back to the boy with Clara. "What will my new memories bring me? Anything I should be prepared for?"

He turned to see her smirking and he knew she absolutely knew, but she wouldn't say, and he nodded in acceptance before she asked, "Be a pal, send my son back – we're meeting my mum and dad for dinner and Caroline's promised him a bubble bath before we go."

Looking back to her, he slowly enveloped her in another hug, a firm one she accepted, her ear to his chest to listen to his heartbeats. "You _loved_ ," he whispered.

"I loved Tom. I love my baby boy, and I love my wife. With all of my heart, I promise you, I love," she responded as she slipped back and nodded for him to turn and head back to the Tardis, telling him, "You gave that back to me and this time I don't intend to waste it, not even for a second, Doctor. And neither will you."

He smiled, genuinely and calmly and then he looked back to Clara. He wished his memories would fill in, but for that moment he was content to know she lived. _They_ _lived_. He bowed his head and began to walk towards the duo chatting quietly just outside of the Tardis.

The Doctor approached Clara and Charlie, watching the boy step closer to her to lay his chin against her stomach to ask, "Mummy, if there are two of you, and there are two Raggy's, does that mean there'll be two Charlie's?"

"We can't have two Charlie's," Clara told him on a laugh, "That'd be confusing, wouldn't it?"

He giggled and nodded slightly against her, then sighed, "Best not name him Charlie then."

"Best not," Clara repeated confidently with a wrinkling of her nose. Then Clara told him, brushing her hands through his hair to push it away from his round face, "You should go find your mummy, we've got to explore some, the Doctor and me."

He giggled, nodding quickly and giving her a hug she bent to return as he told her, "Love you, Clara."

"Love you too, Charlie," she whispered, rubbing his back as he rushed towards the Doctor and latched onto his leg unexpectedly, giggling up at the shocked look on his face.

The Doctor reached down to pluck him away gently and then he bent, asking him, "You being a good little boy for your mummy?"

Charlie rubbed at his small nose and nodded, telling him seriously, "Yes, Doctor."

"Eating your vegetables and keeping your fingers out of your nose?"

Giggling madly, Charlie hiccupped, "Yes, Doctor."

"Good," then he pointed, "Go on."

Charlie nodded enthusiastically and he turned, rushing back towards his mother and leaping up into her waiting arms and just as Clara had done in the Tardis, this Clara spun him around, holding him close and the Doctor could hear her telling her son, "Ah, my Charlie, I love you so very much."

The boy gripped her tightly and he mumbled on a laugh, "I love you too, mummy."

The Doctor watched them move back towards the blanket where the boy dropped down to hug Caroline from behind, arms draped around her neck as he pointed to ask her about her drawing and he felt his hearts surge as he watched that woman began to explain as the boy pressed his cheek into hers. Proper _family_ , the Doctor knew, exactly what this Clara deserved.

"We should get going, Doctor," his Clara breathed, her hand touching his lightly as she stepped into the Tardis and sang, "All of time and space, everything there ever was and ever will be," and he turned to watch her laugh as she moved backwards into the blue box and down the ramp towards the console as he shut the doors behind him. "Where would you like to start?"

The Doctor moved towards her slowly, a devious grin on his lips as he stepped into the space just in front of her and he bent to kiss her gently. To hear her sigh and small moan just as he inched back to tell her, "You."

She laughed, "Me?"

"All of you," he answered.

Clara managed to feign surprise as she scoffed, "Down boy."

And the Doctor laughed because as she moved to the console and her hands began to move deftly over the controls, he began to remember. It all inched back into his brain like a warm blanket, wrapping up each of his concerns with serenity and he understood _all of her_ was his. And he was entirely hers. Perhaps they'd always been, he thought on a laugh, jumping towards a lever to bring it down before she could, and he laughed with her as they plunged into the vortex.

"Come on, Raggy Bear!" the Doctor shouted, "Let's have an adventure!"

He looked to Clara's glowing smile as the final bits of his memories dropped into place and he looked to that bear, sitting in a console seat. _Holding a space_ , the Doctor knew with a sudden excited glance back at Clara as she let loose a small gleeful shout before toggling a knob and laughing back at him. He slid towards her and wrapped himself around her to maneuver the ship with her, his chin nestling into her shoulder as they slowed and swayed and he knew he would never let another moment pass him by. His hands slipped around her waist and he held her to him, whispering, "Never backwards, Clara."

And she nudged his temple with her own, laughing, "Always forward, Doctor."


End file.
